


Cocktails and Dreams

by aftereighteen



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Inspired by a Movie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftereighteen/pseuds/aftereighteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set largely in late 2007/early 2008 where Michael is sort of the Michael we know and love, and Ryan is a bartender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocktails and Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This came about as the result of Ryan's clear choice of a real-life backup career (bartending) and Michael's obvious prediliction for bar staff (no further comment).
> 
> This fic has also been inspired by the movie "Cocktail" (please don't judge my taste in low-brow 80s cinema. It was all very fabulous at the time), though clearly some plot points were ignored/changed (nobody dies, there is no mpreg - phew). In the inimitable style of 80s cinema, this piece is also unapologetically cheesy in places. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
> 
> This piece would not have been possible without notable contributions from two people who believed in me when I didn't believe in my own ability to finish something which unexpectedly became a behemoth - thank you from the bottom of my heart, this is for you and you.

Michael hadn’t felt like he was taking a huge risk when he graduated high school and chose swimming over college. His coach had told him that all he had to do was work hard, and the success would come. His family had supported his decision. His manager believed in him. None of them had banked on a car accident, resulting in damage which couldn’t be fixed even by the best doctors in the country.

And that was when the fifteen year plan that he and his coach had mapped out when Michael was just twelve years old – a plan which seemed to him to last for eternity, one which would never end and would ensure that the rest of his life was planned out and secure – dissolved. There was no real contingency, there weren’t any rules to follow anymore. Michael was twenty two and his life as he knew it had ended.

Two Olympic campaigns – one successful, the other more of a practice run – meant that, if he was careful, he didn’t have to figure everything out right away: his financial future wasn’t as bleak as his swimming career. But Michael wasn’t in the mood to be careful. All of his friends – the few who still spoke to him from high school, despite him spending most of the past ten years face down in fifty metres of water – were moving in the opposite direction. They were moving onwards and upwards, they’d been to college and come out the other side with degrees and jobs and were even starting to think about building families for themselves.

Michael was sick of being left behind. So he took his credit card one day, got on a plane and partied his ass off for several months. Which put paid to most of the security of his financial future. When he limped home at the end of his bingeing escapades, his agent kindly offered to help, as did his coach and his family. But Michael didn’t want any of it. He wanted to start over.

Which was how he found himself in a place where anyone could be anonymous and forgotten, in a room where he hoped to blend in. Michael gave in, held his sponsors to their promise of putting him through college if swimming didn’t work out, sold his bachelor pad in his hometown and used the funds to buy a shitty apartment in New York. He then enrolled on one of the most generic college courses he could find in a prospectus and tried to re-start his life.

Michael hadn’t factored in how long it’s been since he studied, and even doubts that he could refer to his high school experience in that way, because he’d spent far more hours in the pool than doing homework at that point. He also can’t remember how to make friends without buying them, so he spends much of his time alone.

One day, after a particularly dismal class, he leaves the building and just keeps walking. Michael doesn’t feel like going home and doesn’t pay attention to how long he walks for or how far he goes. He just knows that some time later, he’s feeling a little tired and pretty cold.

Michael stops and assesses his surroundings, and finds himself outside a bar. Deciding that must be some sort of fate, he goes inside and takes a seat at the bar. It’s quiet, the place seems empty. When Michael checks his watch, he realises why: it’s three in the afternoon. The only people in bars at this time are desperadoes and alcoholics, the rest of the world has somewhere meaningful to be.

Michael’s thoughts are interrupted by a napkin appearing on the bar in front of him, placed down by a strong-looking hand. “What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

Michael looks up into a pair of striking – if a little deadened – blue eyes and has no idea what to say. So he stares.

“Are you lost?” the guy asks, before answering his own question. “No, you can’t be. The lost ones never sit down. Are you high?” He leans further over the bar, peering into Michael’s eyes. Michael blinks and leans back reflexively.

“Do you speak English?” the bartender asks loudly and slowly.

“Yes,” Michael mutters.

“It speaks!” the bartender gasps mockingly. “So is it going to tell me why it’s here?”

“Same reason as you, I think,” Michael replies tartly. “Because I’m bored and alone.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow. “I’m actually here because they pay me to be, but I’m not your entertainment. If you want that, there’s a strip joint just along the block, but they don’t open until six. So if you tell me what drink you want, I can keep you busy until then.”

“Do you do food?” Michael asks, realising that he hasn’t eaten.

The bartender laughs. “No, dude. We do drinks and only drinks. I can give you something with fruit in it if that makes you feel better.”

“Did you just offer to make me some sort of lame cocktail with a fucking umbrella in it?” Michael retorts.

“Does this look like a lame umbrella sort of joint?” the bartender snorts, gesturing around the bar. Michael doesn’t need to follow the guy’s gaze to answer that question. “Alright, a non-lame umbrella-less cocktail it is.”

Michael can’t help but watch as the bartender sets about fixing a drink. He observes the guy pouring five liquids into a shaker, and adding several dashes of a sixth, before putting ice in, screwing the top on and shaking it vigorously. Of course, when he does that, the sleeve on his well-fitting t-shirt slides back to reveal an impressive bicep, Michael notes.

When he’s satisfied that the fluids have been adequately shaken, the bartender removes the lid, places a strainer on a glass and pours the mixture into it. He quickly dips a straw in to taste and, apparently satisfied, adds a pinch of an unidentified powder before placing the glass on Michael’s napkin. He stands back, arms folded and eyes on Michael as he takes a tentative sip.

Michael blinks and coughs. “What the fuck is that?” he asks, voice a little raspy. He reflexively takes another sip, trying to clear his throat.

“It’s my signature Cosmo,” the guy tells him. “Every barman has one.”

“Well, that explains a whole lot of nothing,” Michael remarks, taking a bigger gulp. “What’s it called?”

“It’s a Hard Core,” the barman replies simply, to Michael’s disappointment. The guy seems pretty narcissistic, so he’d assumed that the name of the cocktail would perhaps give away his name.

“And what are you called?” he asks.

The guy laughs – presumably at the ridiculous phrasing of Michael’s question – and leans over the bar holding out his hand. “I’m Ryan. Purveyor of Orgasms.”

Michael almost spits drink all over the bar as he clasps Ryan’s warm hand. The barman grins. “You never had one with a capital O?” he asks.

All Michael can manage in response to that is a shake of his head. “Well if you stick around, I might treat you,” Ryan says with a wink. “And what should I be calling you? Or will it just be, ‘Sir’?”

If Michael had been in any doubt as to whether Ryan was hitting on him, those were mostly gone – he decides that Ryan could of course just be playing a giant game, making fun of how awkward Michael clearly feels. He tries to pull himself together enough to answer, as Ryan waits on the other side of the bar.

“Michael,” he replies, cursing himself inwardly as he hears himself lisp the word. It’s something he hates about himself, and it’s worse when he’s nervous.

“Nice to meet you, Michael,” Ryan smiles. Michael thinks that Ryan might be about to ask him another question, but the phone on the wall at the end of the bar rings and Ryan excuses himself to answer it.

Michael sips his drink and watches as Ryan turns his back and leans sideways against the wall as he takes the call. He’s not on the phone for long, but it’s a long enough conversation to obviously irritate the barman. He slams the phone down and turns around swearing under his breath.

“Something wrong?” Michael calls towards him. Ryan looks up, as if only just remembering that he’s not alone and shakes his head in frustration.

“Fifth time in two weeks that bastard’s done that,” he says. “The other barman for tonight called in sick,” he explains. “And it’s the last Thursday of the month, it’s gonna be rammed and I’m by myself. Well, I have the waitresses, but in a way that makes it worse.”

“Is there nobody else you can call?” Michael suggests.

“Apart from a newspaper to advertise for someone new?” Ryan laughs. “I don’t think so, dude.”

Michael finishes his drink, considering Ryan’s predicament. “Can I help?” he offers.

Ryan raises an eyebrow, returning to stand opposite Michael. “You done this before?” he asks, hopefully.

Michael shakes his head. Ryan sighs. “Thought not.”

“Surely it’d be better than nothing?” 

Ryan thinks for a second. “Do you know what a Cuba Libre is?”

Michael shakes his head again. Ryan groans, turning away and muttering to himself. “Explain it to me!” Michael tells him. “It’s, like, four in the afternoon. It must be at least a half hour before people start arriving, longer until it gets busy. Tell me what to do, throw me the easy stuff.”

Ryan turns back to him. “It’s how the smartasses ask for a rum and coke. They don’t know what a real Cuba Libre is, but the yuppies use the term anyways,” he explains.

Michael nods, taking it in. He stands up, removes his sweater and rolls up his sleeves. “Okay. What else do I need to know?”

*

Four hours later, Michael wants to crawl under the bar and hide. He’s got two waitresses and six patrons – who are also irritatingly waving bills in his face, which Michael resolves never to do again himself – yelling at him, plus Ryan at the other end of the bar cursing that he wishes he hadn’t gotten himself into this mess.

He completes another tray of drinks for one of the waitresses and thrusts it at her. “One of these was supposed to be diet,” she snaps.

“That one is!” Michael bites back, indicating a glass as he picks up a glass to start his next order.

“I won’t know that when I get to the table,” she tells him, placing the tray down and fishing the lemon slice out with two straws.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Michael shouts at her, also wondering if the girl is terminally stupid.

“Lime in diet, lemon in full strength,” Ryan calls out from the other end of the bar. “Get your garnishes right and stop pissing off the waitresses!”

The waitress pointedly drops a lime wedge into the drink and flounces away with the tray. Michael wipes his arm across his forehead and continues trying to serve the masses at the bar.

*

Sunlight is starting to filter through the windows when Michael returns the last empty glass to the bar. He leans against the counter and pulls one of his kicks off with a wrinkled nose. Michael peels his sodden sock off his foot and squeezes it tightly, wringing out the soaking material.

“You’re gonna have to get some proper shoes, bro,” Ryan advises. “Sneakers are no good behind bars.”

Michael looks up at the other man, confused. “Did you just offer me a job?” he asks.

Ryan shrugs. “You seem the reliable type. And like you might just be desperate enough to join the ranks of the zombie barmen. What do you say?”

Michael can’t seem to make the words fall out of his mouth – he vaguely remembers this kind of exhaustion from his days as an athlete – but he catches sight of the clock above the bar. “Fuck,” he breathes, scrambling to grab his bag.

Ryan frowns. “Not the response I was hoping for.”

“I have to get to class,” Michael explains.

“It’s six in the morning!” Ryan protests.

“It’s miles away,” Michael tells him. “And I need a shower. And to try and read three chapters of a book I can’t stand.”

“Why are you going then?” Ryan’s even more confused now.

“You gonna make me a better offer?” Michael asks.

Ryan pauses, considering his next move. “You remember the blonde chick? Here most of the night with a pretty Asian girl, wearing a short tight blue dress, irritating laugh but great rack.”

Michael tries to remember and fails spectacularly – his radar for women is way off these days, and he’d been so busy just trying to keep up that he had barely noticed any of his customers, but he nods anyway.

“She was wearing a red lacy thong,” Ryan tells him.

“Excuse me?” Michael splutters, staring at him. Because he didn’t need to know that.

“When you see the colour of their panties, you know you’ve got talent,” Ryan explains. “Stick with me son and I’ll make you a star.”

Michael stares at him for another second before shouldering his bag and unlocking the door. “I’ve gotta go.”

“You’ll be back!” Ryan calls confidently after him.

*

Ryan, of course, is right. On his way out of class, Michael buys a pair of shoes which aren’t sneakers and heads down to the bar. 

“You’re accepting then?” Ryan asks when Michael walks in carrying the shoe box.

Michael settles down on a bar stool. “Maybe.”

Without being invited to, Ryan opens the shoe box and assesses Michael’s purchase. He frowns slightly and picks one of the shoes up. He turns it over and starts attacking the sole with a knife.

“Hey!” Michael yells, leaning over to grab his shoe. “They’re new!”

“I saw that,” Ryan replies, picking up the other one and starting over. “And you’ll break your neck in them if you wear them tonight. I can’t mitigate against you being a clumsy idiot, but I can try and make your shoes a little safer.”

“Do you not think your time would be better spent teaching me how to be a barman?” Michael asks, putting his shoe on and yanking the other one from Ryan’s hands.

“Suit yourself,” Ryan shrugs. “Get back here as soon as you can. I think we’ll start with garnishes and glassware.”

Ryan does indeed proceed to spend the next three hours teaching Michael the name and purpose of every different type of glass in the building – including that, depending on a customer’s accent, a schooner could mean two very different things – as well as drilling him on garnishes. Michael’s still struggling to remember the rule about lemon, lime and sodas, when Ryan suddenly hits upon the phrase “limelight”, and Michael’s brain manages to make sense of the whole situation.

As the bar fills up, Michael feels like he might even be finding his stride. He still has to pass all of the cocktail orders over to Ryan – a fact which makes him stew, because the whole show gets Ryan a lot of attention and even more in tips – and he makes a mental note to demand lessons on all of that as soon as possible.

Just as he’s thinking that flinging a cocktail shaker around whilst winking at the crowd at the bar would be a piece of cake, Michael’s literally brought back to earth with a bump. He later finds out that it’s a fucking lime wedge that screwed him over, but essentially he skids and falls cartoon-style flat on his back, legs in the air.

Ryan – the fucker – laughs briefly, until he realises that Michael looks a little nauseous and semi-conscious. He then – of course – executes a perfect slide from his end of the bar to Michael’s position on the floor and crouches over him to check that he’s alright.

“What year is it?” Ryan asks.

“Fuck you, I’m not concussed,” Michael mutters, trying not to blush in front of the entire bar, as well as concentrating on not throwing up. He must’ve taken quite a crack to his skull. Ryan’s frowning at him and Michael rolls his eyes. “If we all do the right thing, a black dude’s gonna live in the White House soon. That good enough for you?” he figures sass might help him style the whole situation out and tries to sit up, but the floor swings beneath him, conspiring against his gangly limbs and pushing him back down.

Ryan surveys him worriedly and reaches out a muscular arm, supporting Michael’s weight with his own. “Time out. C’mon, MP,” he orders, guiding Michael’s hand to his arm – incredibly, Michael has the presence of mind to take an opportunistic squeeze for the benefit of his spank bank – and hauling his ass off the floor.

Ryan hustles Michael into a little room behind the bar and sets him in a chair, turning an electric fan on him. Michael flaps a hand uselessly, “’s cold,” he whines.

“Do as you’re told,” Ryan demands. “Stay here, I’ll have the girls keep checking on you.”

“But it’s busy,” Michael points out. “You can’t... alone.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Incredibly, you’re even worse to me now than you were before,” Ryan tells him. “You’re staying put. Sip that water with the straw.” And then he’s gone, back into the fray.

*

Having taken Ryan’s advice and slowly sipped down the glass of water, Michael’s feeling a little better, if a bit bored. He contemplates returning to the bar, but his temple throbs in protest at the thought and he decides to stay put for a little longer. He also hopes that this means that Ryan will come and check on him, although he’d said he’d send a waitress.

Michael glances around the store room, taking it in properly for the first time and his gaze falls on a slightly dusty recipe book. Grateful for his long arms, Michael reaches over and grabs the book with minimal effort and begins to read. He recognises a few drinks from his escapades on the customer side of the bar and starts to learn more about how they’re made, the history of them and trying to identify patterns of what goes with what.

He doesn’t realise how long it’s been until the door bangs open and one of the waitresses enters with a fresh glass of water and some ice chips. Michael puts the book down as she approaches and smiles at her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, handing him the glass.

Michael takes a sip and nods. “Better, thanks. If a little stupid.”

The waitress folds the ice chips into a napkin and inspects his head before pressing the napkin against a small bump on the back of his head. She leans close against Michael as she does so, placing her hand on his shoulder for balance. Michael winces at the pressure of the ice and reflexively rests his hand on the girl’s hip, supporting her weight.

The next thing Michael knows is that the waitress has positioned herself sitting across his lap, still holding the ice against his head with her arm draped around his neck. Despite his general lack of affection for women, it’s a long time since anyone’s shown Michael this sort of attention and he responds automatically by running his knuckles down the front of her blouse.

She carefully tilts his chin up with her free hand and dives in for a kiss. Michael closes his eyes and, although all he can smell is alcohol and perfume, the only thing he can think of is Ryan: how different it would feel to have the muscular bartender sat on his thighs, how the pressure from his lips would be different and how much more he’d be into it.

His brain going into overdrive about Ryan fuels his actions and he grips the girl’s hip tightly, imagining she’s someone else entirely and forcefully increasing the intensity of the kiss. It’s only when she moans in his mouth – far more high-pitched than even an excited Ryan would manage, Michael thinks – that he remembers who he’s with, and the switch in his brain flips back in the other direction. Michael’s hand moves to push the girl away, pulling his face back and shaking his head.

She gets up and throws him a disgusted look, shaking her head and muttering something Michael can’t hear before storming out. He winces as the door slams and the sound resonates around his aching skull. Michael puts the ice down, has some more water and picks his book up again, trying not to imagine Ryan making everything from an Alabama Slammer to a Moscow Mule and how his muscles would flex and ripple in the process.

He doesn’t get very far before the door slams open again and Ryan storms in, face like thunder. “First, you show up and get under my feet and take your sweet ass time about learning the difference between lemons and limes, then you fucking fall flat on that ass and pretty much knock yourself out, leaving me to handle a packed bar by myself. What the fuck did you do this time that meant my best fucking waitress walked out in the middle of all of that?” he fumes.

Michael’s jaw drops at the onslaught and he frowns once Ryan finishes. “Well if you really want to know,” he says, reaching out and taking Ryan’s wrist to pull him over. “She started it. But I did this.”

Michael tugs Ryan onto his lap and kisses him hard, before the other man has time to protest. And even though the bartender is clearly shocked at being given a physical demonstration of what he had already assumed had happened, he also doesn’t seem to hate it. So Michael lets himself go crazy, gripping Ryan’s ass and pushing his tongue across the other man’s lips into his mouth.

Ryan responds with a groan and shifts his hips to turn towards Michael, pressing their bodies together and reaching over to stroke Michael’s neck. Michael’s earlier assumptions are right: Ryan does kiss harder, taste different, feel better against him. It’s a little while before either of them pulls away and Michael shrugs when Ryan leans back to look at him, breathless and a eyes a little unfocused.

“It wasn’t really much like that. But that’s how I imagined it’d be if it were you and not her,” he says by way of explanation.

Before Ryan fully recovers from the onslaught, Michael manhandles him back into a standing position and readjusts his own dick before standing up. “So you need some help?” he asks, straightening himself out and making to head for the bar.

“Yeah,” Ryan rasps, catching Michael unawares and pushing him up against the closed door before kissing him enthusiastically. Michael’s hands go straight to Ryan’s ass again – he figures he’s made it pretty clear what he wants, but there’s no harm in hammering the point home – and holds Ryan’s hips firmly against him, letting out a groan as Ryan’s body grazes his rapidly hardening dick. Ryan plunges his tongue into Michael’s mouth, exploring quickly whilst pushing his thigh between Michael’s, tilting his hips against the taller man.

“Help’d be good,” Ryan confirms when he eventually pulls back, nipping at Michael’s jaw. He withdraws to allow Michael to step away from the door, heading back through to the bar. Michael watches the other man go with a shake of his head, hoping the rest of the night passes quickly and without further incident.

*

The rest of the night is a blur, partly because Michael’s head is throbbing, partly because it’s still really busy at the bar and partly because all he can think about doing is throwing Ryan over the bar and fucking him into the middle of next week.

The final thought threatens to take over on several occasions, when Ryan brushes closer than necessary when reaching for a glass, or nudges his hand when picking up a bottle. At one point, Ryan catches Michael’s eye and tips him a wink, almost causing Michael’s knees to give way. The next time their eyes meet, Michael makes sure to run his tongue over his lips, smirking when Ryan’s jaw drops before busying himself with his next order.

Michael continues to concentrate hard on the patrons, however: his pace is picking up and he’s working with more flair, so the tips and the offers of drinks are rolling in on a more regular basis, and he takes full advantage. He also has the suspicion that his flirting and increased confidence is doing something to Ryan, so he slips further into his newfound role, playing up to both of his audiences.

When the last customer finally leaves, Ryan goes over to bolt the door and Michael - further emboldened by the amount of drinks he’s accepted throughout the night, partly to stop the pounding in his head – follows close behind, reaching up to take the other man’s hand as he slides the lock across.

“Don’t bother,” Michael murmurs, nipping at the back of Ryan’s ear. He feels Ryan quiver against him and presses his hips forward into Ryan’s ass.

“Come on,” Michael encourages, not waiting for Ryan to protest. “Screw clearing up, it’s been a long night and I still need looking after.”

*

Despite Michael’s aching head, they half-run the three blocks to Ryan’s apartment. When they get to his building, Michael grabs Ryan’s hips and grinds against the other man, causing him to moan and fumble with his keys. Ryan eventually gets himself together enough to unlock the door, taking Michael’s hand and yanking him up four flights of stairs.

When he stops to unlock his apartment, Michael roughly turns Ryan to face him, again pushing him up against the door and kissing him with a great deal of intent. Ryan arches his back and ruts against Michael’s thigh with a moan, trying to wriggle free. Michael works his mouth down Ryan’s neck and the barman plants his hand on Michael’s chest and pushes firmly, panting.

“Dude,” Ryan gasps. “Loving the enthusiasm, but will you let me get us inside? I draw the line at fucking in my hallway.”

“Shame,” Michael murmurs, leaning in to nip at Ryan’s neck once more before letting him unlock the door. “I bet the neighbours would love a show.”

Ryan pushes the door open and pulls Michael into his apartment, quickly finding his lips again and instigating a bruising kiss. Neither of them needs any persuasion to take their clothes off: jackets, shirts and shoes all get discarded as Michael follows Ryan through the apartment.

They reach the bedroom and Ryan throws the lights on and starts to remove his pants. Michael stares, for the first time wishing that they weren’t going at this like a bull in a china shop, as he takes in Ryan’s nearly-naked body. For a guy who spends what seems to be all of his time behind a bar, he’s in great shape, leading Michael to wonder when Ryan finds the time to maintain his perfect physique.

“So you want me to look after you?” Ryan’s question brings Michael back to earth. He nods dumbly, fumbling with his own belt until it comes loose and he drops his pants, stepping out of them. Ryan gestures to the bed, “Make yourself comfortable.”

Michael suddenly panics that Ryan is just going to look after him and reluctantly lies down in the middle of the bed a little nervously. The nerves are soon forgotten when Ryan removes his underwear, revealing his hard dick before joining Michael on the bed.

Ryan plants his mouth on Michael’s hipbone and sucks, making his way up the younger man’s body and murmuring, “You were trying to talk a good game, Mike, with your hallway crack, but you still took a decent hit to that thick skull earlier. So for now, I’m in charge. And if you still want to, you can take your turn another time.” He’s now made it to Michael’s eye level and kisses him firmly as Michael nods his agreement.

Ryan continues to kiss Michael hungrily, and moves to straddle his hips, planting his hands on Michael’s chest and running them across the plane of slightly-forgotten muscles. Just as Michael’s beginning to feel a little dizzy – possibly from a lack of air, more likely due to his throbbing headache – Ryan pulls away, sitting up astride Michael’s thighs and surveying him carefully.

Michael stares back at Ryan, trying to ask what he’s looking at and waiting for, but instead only managing to pout. He reaches up and grabs Ryan’s butt, rubbing his palms over the other man’s warm skin and thrusts his hips indicatively.

Ryan rolls his eyes and shakes his head in response. “I knew you’d be a bossy bottom,” he pulls Michael’s hands away and kneels up, leaning past Michael to rummage around in the nightstand. 

With Ryan’s hips in the air, Michael takes the opportunity to wriggle out of his underwear. “You weren’t disappointed then,” he mumbles in a slightly-delayed response to Ryan’s remark about his bossiness.

Ryan finds what he was looking for a second later and pulls himself back on top of Michael, leaning in to nip at his neck. “Not yet, anyway,” he murmurs before sitting back up and settling across Michael’s hips.

Michael shifts his hips, trying not to let out a whine of frustration and attempts to get more comfortable. He puts his hands on Ryan’s waist and tries to push the other man further back. Ryan swats his hands away and uncaps the lube, smearing some on his fingers. “Will you just give me a chance, slutboy? Anyone would think you haven’t done this before.”

“I could say the same to you,” Michael protests. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“This,” Ryan replies, planting a hand on Michael’s chest to balance as he reaches back and inserts a finger into his own body with a soft groan.

Michael’s eyes widen and he lets out a reverent, “fuck” as he exhales. Ryan rolls his eyes again and bites his lip, “Yeah, in a minute.”

Now that he’s realised what Ryan’s trying to achieve, Michael marshals his limbs to help. Michael’s version of helping in this situation still mostly involves being passive and getting himself increasingly turned on as he watches Ryan arch his back, stretching himself steadily. Michael issues several encouraging noises, rubbing his hand over Ryan’s thigh, gripping the flexed muscles occasionally before losing patience and moving his hand to wrap around Ryan’s hard dick.

Ryan’s hips stutter and his eyes fall shut following Michael’s touch. It takes a little while for Ryan to get his rhythm going again and Michael eventually takes the hint, loosening his grip on Ryan again, eliciting a nod from the other man.

“Get yourself dressed, MP,” Ryan rasps a minute later, tilting his head towards the condom he’s left by Michael’s hip.

Michael quickly does as he’s told and, as soon as Ryan notices that Michael’s ready, he re-balances and slides slowly onto Michael’s waiting dick. Both men let out relieved groans and begin to move. Michael – uncoordinated at the best of times – struggles to catch on to Ryan’s rhythm, earning him a growl and a cuff to the shoulder from the other man.

“Will you just trust me for a second?” Ryan growls. “We’ll get there, but not if you keep doing your best to throw me off.”

“Well I’m not apologising for the fact that I like it fast,” Michael pouts up at him.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “There’s a fucking surprise, never would’ve picked you as the wham bam type. I’ve a good mind to,” Ryan pauses to groan as he tilts his hips, working his muscles at the same time in a way which, admittedly, makes Michael’s eyes roll back in his head, “just roll you over and take you. But I won’t, because I’m not here to hurt you.”

“What are you trying to do?” Michael asks stupidly, hands wandering up Ryan’s thighs as he feels Ryan slide up off his dick once more. He suspects that Ryan might roll his eyes again, but the bartender smiles instead.

As Ryan sinks his hips once more, he leans down and captures Michael’s lower lip between his teeth, murmuring, “Show you that my talents don’t end with lemons and limes.”

Michael makes a noise of approval and, when Ryan sits back up, he takes Michael’s hand and wraps it around his dick, helping him to build the pace to the speed he favours. Ryan groans as Michael tightens his grip and settles into the task he’s been given, this time not complaining when Michael meets Ryan’s downward movement with an upward thrust of his hips.

Ryan becomes less conversational as Michael continues to stroke his dick quickly, but is still encouraging. His breathy gasps – head tilted back, eyes closed – turn to a string of obscenities when Michael bends his knees, reaching for a different spot within the other man. Ryan leans forward in response, bracing himself with a strong hand on Michael’s shoulder and thrusting quickly.

Before he has a chance to realise and think to hold off for a little longer, Michael’s body takes over and he loses pace on Ryan’s dick as his back arches. He’s vaguely aware of Ryan’s mouth latching onto the exposed muscles of his neck as his orgasm takes over and he rides it out with Ryan muttering compliments hot and fast against his skin.

Ryan seems to realise that Michael’s body has given up on him as he sits up and covers Michael’s hand with his own, letting out a final groan as he finishes off. The last thing he sees before he blacks out is what he hopes is a contented grin spreading across Ryan’s face.

*

Michael wakes up flat on his back in an unfamiliar room and tries to run through his usual assessment of the situation: where’s the person he spent the night with; what time is it and where is he; where are his clothes and can he make it out undetected? As he’s trying to answer these questions, he comes to the realisation that there’s no point: he’s alone in the bed.

Michael briefly feels relieved that he doesn’t have to worry about being quiet, can just round up his things and leave. But then two things happen: firstly, he fails to lift his head from the pillow, as a searing pain shoots behind his eyes; secondly, the fractured pieces of the night before fall into place. Falling over behind the bar, kissing the waitress, kissing Ryan – twice – before going back to work, then heading to Ryan’s place and... his thoughts are interrupted by a creaking floorboard and Ryan appearing beside the bed.

Michael successfully turns his head enough to catch sight of Ryan – a glowing display of beaming smile, smooth skin and muscle that he’s really not ready to cope with – and tries to find an appropriate response. He fails spectacularly.

Ryan shakes his head ruefully and sets the tray he’s carrying down on the nightstand. “You’re lucky you’re injured and hungover,” Ryan tells him. “I have just as much of an excuse for being unable to move, you know.”

Michael nods his understanding, hints of what they’d gotten up to prior to Michael passing out where he lay flitting through his mind. He isn’t sure what he should regret more – fucking a co-worker or the state he was in meaning that it wasn’t exactly a stellar performance on his part. He decides that the horse has bolted with regard to the co-worker situation – he can’t rewind and take it back, so he has to deal with it.

Summoning all of his energy and ignoring the – admittedly duller than previously – pain in his head, Michael hauls himself up, moving to sit leaning back against the headboard. Once settled, he reaches out and curls his hand around Ryan’s thigh, pulling him towards the bed and pushing the covers back, indicating for Ryan to join him.

“Just do one thing for me first,” Ryan insists, leaning over to pick something up off the tray. Michael dazedly wonders if Ryan’s obsessive about dental hygiene and is about to produce a toothbrush, but instead he hands him a glass of water and two Advil, which Michael accepts gratefully. Once Michael’s done, Ryan sets the glass back down on the nightstand, removes his t-shirt and briefs then accepts Michael’s invitation back into the bed.

Michael takes full advantage of the opportunity to run his gaze over Ryan’s naked body, pulling the other man around to straddle his own thighs. To his disappointment, Ryan doesn’t press close, instead choosing to let his hand wander down Michael’s side towards his hip.

“Got any blanks you need filling in?” he asks quietly, allowing his hand to rest on Michael’s hip, thumb tracing the skin.

Michael shakes his head and finally finds his voice. “I’m sorry.”

Ryan looks up at him. “What for?”

“Uh... falling over? Leaving you to do all of the work...”

“Twice in one night,” Ryan cuts in, making Michael blush and nod.

“...passing out...”

“Again, twice in one night,” Ryan laughs. 

“I said I was sorry,” Michael mutters, trying to figure out whether he has the energy to topple Ryan over and escape. He has no interest in sticking around – even if they are both naked and their bodies are expressing a reasonable interest in a repeat of the night before – if all Ryan’s going to do is mock him.

Apparently, Ryan is going to move things along: he squeezes Michael’s hip and, with his other hand, tilts Michael’s chin up, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I’d like to think,” he murmurs against Michael’s lips, “that the second time was a result of me being just that good. But seeing the state of you this morning, I just can’t kid myself.”

Michael makes a noise of protest and Ryan silences him with another kiss. “That’s very kind of you, baby,” he continues when he pulls away, “but there’s no need to lie about it. On top of your acrobatics in the bar, I saw how many drinks you accepted last night. I’m betting you wouldn’t have been steady on your feet or capable of fucking all night even if you hadn’t taken a blow to the head.”

“You said I needed looking after,” Michael reminds him.

Ryan nods, moving to lick a trail across Michael’s shoulder and shifting his hips a little, rubbing their dicks together in the process. “Do you still need looking after?”

Michael nods as eagerly as possible in response, wrapping an arm around Ryan and running his hand up and down the other man’s back, making Ryan shudder.

“Okay,” Ryan says a little shakily. “But I’ll warn you now, we’ve got two hours max. Then I have to get ready and go to work.”

“It’s Saturday!” Michael protests.

Ryan chuckles. “Well spotted. And what do people do on Saturday nights?” He leans back, sitting on Michael’s thighs and surveys him carefully.

“What?” Michael asks, growing impatient and disappointed that Ryan’s touches have cooled off.

“I’ve been meaning to ask what your deal is,” Ryan tells him.

Michael raises an eyebrow and pulls Ryan’s hand away from the spot it’s still attached to on his hip. “If my name didn’t give you a clue, did this not either?” he asks, indicating the Olympic rings tattooed into his skin.

Ryan’s gaze drops to the spot his hand had occupied and he nods. “Yes, you arrogant fuck, I know who you are. But I want your version, not Wikipedia’s. Which, by the way, is not a pleasant read.”

Michael snorts, dropping Ryan’s hand and looking away. “If all that you wanted was confirmation so that you can...” he starts.

“Hey,” Ryan cuts in sharply. “Do you wanna think about that before you shoot your mouth off with those kinds of accusations?”

Michael glares at him hotly. “I don’t have any money anymore, if that’s what you’re after,” he spits. “I’m sure you got that from the internet and hoped it wasn’t true, but it is. Probably the only truth there is out there.”

Ryan regards Michael carefully before speaking again. “You really did make some bad choices, didn’t you? If that’s what you think that anyone who takes you home is after.”

Michael shrugs. “So what if it’s happened a few times?”

“So what, because you’re a former-champion who got injured and had a lost bender of a year you don’t deserve to have any self-respect left?” Ryan counters, shaking his head. He sighs. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything about yourself right now. You don’t have to pour your heart out or whatever. I was just trying to figure out if I could help. And whether my latest barman’s gonna do a bunk in a couple of weeks like the last one did.”

Michael wants to ask if Ryan fucked his previous colleague too, but finds the clarity in his addled brain to think better of it. “I’m... trying to start over,” he explains. “I spent what would’ve been my college years training and being boring. And now I’m apparently spending them flat on my back behind a bar.” He catches Ryan’s eye and smiles hopefully.

Ryan shrugs. “Better than flat on your ass on the other side. Because then I’d have had to have kicked you out rather than taking care of you. Which reminds me...”

Michael waits, eyeing Ryan with mild suspicion. “Were you studying up last night when you weren’t groping that waitress and imagining she was me?”

Michael nods. “I might’ve been... You seem to do well out of the cocktail thing, so I figured...”

“Oh you reckon you’re ready for the big leagues?” Ryan challenges, shifting a little closer to Michael again. “Did you find anything you wanted to try?”

Michael wraps both arms around Ryan, pulling him closer and lifting his own hips to grind against the other man. He searches his brain for a drink name which involves the appropriate amount of innuendo but also fits the tone of their current situation.

“I liked the sound,” he begins, moving his hands down Ryan’s back and squeezing his ass, “of a Sloe Comfortable Screw, actually.”

“Mmm,” Ryan considers. “Against the wall could be ambitious this morning. Would Sir be happy with the standard version?”

“With a kiss?” Michael offers, gripping Ryan’s body tightly, using the strength in his hips and the element of surprise to flip the other man onto his back. He holds himself above Ryan, pushing his hips between the bartender’s thighs, encouraging him to spread his legs.

“As you wish,” Ryan agrees, pulling Michael down for a kiss as he relaxes into the sheets.

*

They talk, fuck and doze the middle of the day away. Ryan initiates further discussion of how they came to be where they are, by telling Michael that he bought his share of the bar from his brother in law, who had initially co-owned it with the girl he was seeing prior to Ryan’s sister. Ryan had needed to supplement his income following his post-art school discovery that life as a struggling artist isn’t all sex, drugs and inspirational trips to Paris, so he’d joined the ranks of nocturnal bar staff.

His stake in the bar comes with a profit share and his relationship with his brother in law’s ex had initially been a good one: she had been easy to negotiate with regarding shifts, which had allowed Ryan to continue with art a little as well as travelling the world competing in flair bartending events and finding reasonable success. It turns out that, at this point, things had become a little difficult, as patrons had begun flocking to the bar to see Ryan, only to be disappointed that he was often away competing.

So a switch had been made: Ryan had returned to his residency behind his home bar and his partner made her way around the competitions. Unfortunately, she had been less successful than Ryan and, despite him still being a draw for some customers, interest tailed off as he lost visibility. His partner eventually slunk home with her tail between her legs, but refused to allow Ryan back out on the road, insisting that they share the workload at the bar instead.

“And pretty much the only things my shaker gets dusted off for these days are Cosmos and Martinis,” Ryan shakes his head with a laugh. “Fuckin’ James Bond and Carrie Bradshaw, man. So much to answer for.”

He falls quiet and Michael, at first, isn’t sure what to say. The silence is clearly a brooding one, so Michael tries to find a subject that’ll hopefully encourage Ryan into a happier train of thought.

“What kind of art do you do?” he asks. The plan backfires. Spectacularly. 

Ryan stretches his arms out and sits up with a shrug, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Oh, y’know... just... stuff,” he says, offering no clarity on the situation whatsoever. “I didn’t realise what the time is, I’ve gotta get a move on.”

Michael wants to push it, but also figures that he should leave them something to talk about if he should ever be fortunate enough to find himself in this position again. He watches Ryan disappear and lies back amongst the pillows, mulling a few things over.

*

Michael heads home when Ryan leaves for work and spends the afternoon trying to catch up on some reading, as well as planning out the paper he’s supposed to hand in on Tuesday. He’s only mildly distracted by thoughts of Ryan, allowing himself to occasionally consider the way that Ryan’s breath hitches when something Michael does to him feels particularly good; or remind himself of how phenomenal it felt to once again have a strong, muscular body work at his own until he can’t take any more. He pushes away the thoughts which involve the care and attention Ryan paid him in a non-sexual way, because despite what Ryan said about not selling him out to the gossip columnists, Michael’s also pretty certain that Ryan isn’t looking for some long-term love-of-his-life style relationship. So Michael focuses instead on their naked bodies moving as one towards a higher pleasure, rather than the dogs, cows, stars and... whatever the fourth quadrant on the matrix he’s supposed to be writing about covers.

As if on cue, Michael’s phone buzzes with a message from Ryan.

_[Ryan 17:11 – u make it home safe?]_

Michael puts his book down and replies quickly.

_[Michael 17:13 – yeah. bored w/study. u need a hand 2nite?]_

_[Ryan 17:16 – got it coverd thanks. dnt need ne more accidnts ;)]_

Michael frowns, hoping that Ryan’s referring to his fall behind the bar rather than the rest of their night and morning together. He picks his book back up, not sure what to say that doesn’t make him sound desperate or girly. Another message soon follows Ryan’s previous one.

_[Ryan 17:18 – am off 2mrw & mon, bt if u want 2 wrk tues, i’ll show u sum basics...]_

_[Michael 17:19 – cocktails?]_

_[Ryan 17:22 – like i said, basics. c u tues]_

Michael abandons his book, pulls his laptop over and starts researching cocktails.

*

True to his word, when Michael shows up on Tuesday afternoon – having handed in a paper which was so half-assed he wasn’t even sure he should bother – Ryan shows him how to make three drinks. Ryan then spends four nights each week for the next three weeks yelling at Michael whenever he needs a Cosmo, a Bellini or a vodka Martini.

Predictably, it’s a shambles at the beginning. When Ryan slides over to help, brushing against him and murmuring comments on Michael’s technique in his ear, Michael isn’t sure that he wants to improve. But after six nights of lukewarm reception – though always followed with sleepovers at Ryan’s which were far from disappointing – Michael finally receives the feedback Ryan had promised would come: a flirtatious smile from the other side of the bar, accompanied by a flash of underwear and bills rather than coins in his dish.

It’s the motivation Michael needs to keep improving and, slowly but surely, his repertoire of drinks expands. With Ryan’s guidance, he makes his way through the cocktail manual he’d studied the night he fell over and it’s not long afterwards that his end of the bar is just as crowded as Ryan’s. The waitresses warm up to him as his success increases and he’s back to feeling like his life is one long party – though this time he’s earning rather than spending.

Following one particularly lucrative night, Michael bolts the door as the final customers leave and turns to see Ryan frowning in confusion. “What are you doing?” he asks. “You’ve been eye-fucking me all night, I nearly said something because it was starting to send me way down on tips.”

Michael licks his lips, looping his arms around Ryan’s waist and starting to walk him backwards toward the bar. “But we finished well, right?”

“Yeah, really fucking well,” Ryan admits. “So let’s get out of here, I’ll clear up tomorrow before opening.”

“You will,” Michael agrees. “And we’ll get out of here when I’m ready to go.”

Ryan looks completely bewildered as his back hits the bar. “So I’ve been thinking,” Michael says casually, surveying Ryan and running a hand down to grip his waist. “Isn’t it about time we got to work on my signature Cosmo?”

He works his hand up under Ryan’s shirt and Ryan finally catches on, turning slowly and resting his elbows on the bar, leaning over it. He glances over his shoulder at Michael. “Okay. You got any ideas of what it might be like?”

Michael considers this, moving to stand directly behind Ryan and rubbing his hands over the other man’s ass. “I want it to be strong,” he begins.

Ryan nods, reaching down with one hand to undo his pants. “You do know the Baltimore Bang already exists, right?”

Michael tugs Ryan’s pants and underwear off his ass, moving on to rub the exposed skin. “I think we both know that,” Michael comments. “But only if we’re not talking about cocktails anymore.” He produces some lube from his pocket, slicks his fingers and twists two into Ryan without any pretence.

Ryan groans loudly, gripping the edge of the bar and thrusting back to meet Michael’s fingers. “It’s, uh, bourbon,” he bites out. “Apricot brandy...” Ryan has to break off the recipe to swear loudly as Michael flexes and curls his fingers inside him. “Fuck, yes!”

“What else?” Michael asks, fumbling to undo his own pants and stroking himself through his underwear.

“Lemon juice,” Ryan groans. “And sugar.”

Michael stills his hand to discard his underwear. “Is that it?”

Ryan glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Served garnished with an orange slice and the obligatory inappropriate cherry.”

Michael withdraws his fingers and lines up, ready to take Ryan where they’re stood. “And is it any good?”

“Depends who does it,” Ryan replies, eyes sparkling. “But I prefer my bang with a kiss, rather than a cherry.”

Michael grips Ryan’s hip and leans forward to capture Ryan’s lips as he thrusts into him. “Noted,” he murmurs, feeling the other man shudder beneath him. He pulls away, straightening up and setting a quick pace, Ryan’s cries echoing around the empty bar as he switches between incoherent swears and repeating Michael’s name.

Sensing that Michael isn’t going to offer a whole lot of help, Ryan hastily wraps his hand around his dick, stroking to the speed of Michael’s frantic thrusts. He loves watching Ryan’s ass readily accept his dick, pounding into him and feeling his hips flex with the movement. Ryan lets out a loud groan and Michael looks up, expecting Ryan to have turned to look at him.

“Fuck, MP,” Ryan moans. “You see that?”

Michael’s brain is far from capable of focusing on anything other than the heat surrounding his dick, until he follows what must be Ryan’s sight line directly behind the bar. They’d both forgotten about the mirrored glass behind the bottle display until their eyes meet in the reflection before them and Michael breathes out a, “Fuck” to match Ryan’s.

He picks up the pace again, moving quickly inside Ryan and watching the other man’s expression change as he gets closer to the edge. And it’s the look on Ryan’s face which does for him first, sending the wave of pleasure rushing through his body as he fills Ryan’s ass, gasping for breath. Ryan bites his lip and braces himself against the bar, finishing himself off with Michael trembling behind him.

Ryan leans his head down on his arm, breathing hard. “Cherries,” he laughs hoarsely, “are never that good.”

*

Michael’s sleeping through class the following Thursday when his phone buzzing in his pocket wakes him up. He shifts in his seat and reads the message from Ryan under his desk.

_[Ryan 15:29 – u+me goin out 2nite.]_

Michael yawns, rubs his eyes and frowns, but the message hasn’t changed.

_[Michael 15:31 – wut?]_

He puts his head back down on the desk and starts to doze off again, but Ryan’s reply prevents him from falling into a proper sleep.

_[Ryan 15:33 – if ur jus sleepin thru class, quit. 2nite, i’ll persuade u.]_

Michael’s still confused and wonders briefly if he and Ryan have been sacked. But, his brain tells him, that can’t be the case – Ryan’s told him that takings at the bar haven’t been this good since his competition days.

_[Michael 15:37 – wut is goin on?]_

_[Ryan 15:39 – go bk 2 sleep, u’ll need energy. wear that t-shirt i like.]_

Michael does as he’s told.

*

Rather than meeting at the bar or Ryan’s apartment, Michael’s instructed to meet Ryan a few blocks from his own place. As instructed, he wears the shirt Ryan likes, and is met with an approving glance.

“Why aren’t we at work?” Michael asks, joining Ryan in the line outside a building which is vibrating with bass.

“Water’s out at that end of the city,” Ryan explains. “Some idiot drilled through a pipe or flipped the wrong switch or something. Can’t run a bar with no water.”

“Right,” Michael nods. “And we’re not at your apartment fucking all night instead because...?”

“Because that doesn’t seem to be persuading you to do what I think you should do,” Ryan tells him.

“Which is?” Michael encourages.

“Dude, do you not read my messages?”

“As you pointed out yourself, I was asleep.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “We’re here to persuade you that college is for losers, work is for winners and that you’re a winner.”

They inch closer to the front of the line and Michael’s still feeling baffled. He fidgets next to Ryan, glancing over at the other man to check him out, noting that he’s made a significant effort this evening, instead of his usual reasonable effort for work.

“Am I your wingman?” Michael asks in a sudden burst of inspiration.

Ryan blinks at him. “Do you want to be?”

“Um,” Michael considers. “No?”

“That sounded like a question rather than an answer.”

“No, I don’t want to be your wingman.”

Ryan shrugs. “Then you’re not.”

“I... what?!” Michael asks, his confusion increasing.

They’ve now reached the front of the line and the bouncer steps back to let them in. Ryan gestures for Michael to go first and he obediently steps into the building and heads up the stairs, starting to feel the music and the heat seep through his body.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Ryan slowly steers Michael through a large room with a high ceiling, full of gyrating bodies and the noisy heat of a club that Michael remembers well. Once they're across the room, Michael stops and pouts at Ryan, who laughs in response.

"You wanna dance?" Ryan asks by shouting in his ear over the music.

"You asking?" Michael retorts.

Ryan shakes his head and grabs Michael's hand. "Follow me," he insists, dragging him through to a quiet hallway.

"What the fuck's going on, Ryan?" Michael demands, annoyed that he's being shoved around.

Ryan pauses at another door and smiles at the girl guarding it with a clipboard. She glances up, grinning and squealing when she spots Ryan, and the pair exchange noisy air kisses and a brief catch up. She soon opens the door and ushers them both through, wishing them a good night.

The first thing that Michael notices is the shift in atmosphere. The room doesn't have the thrumming bass running through it which the club had, but it's no library either. As he takes in his surroundings, Michael notices people talking and laughing in groups. He cranes his neck to see what it is that's captivating the nearest group and he realises it's a small bar. Michael steps closer, drawn in by the show being conjured by the guy who's working his crowd.

The bartender makes drink after drink - and Michael sees many flashes of underwear, but what he notices most is the amount of bills being thrust towards the guy after the drinks have been paid for. It's busy in the room, and the clientele clearly have money to throw around in the same way that Michael used to. But Michael knows what it's like to be that person and therefore wonders how discerning they are.

He feels Ryan press up behind him after a few minutes and the other man murmurs in his ear. "Not that one," he says quietly. "This way." He wraps a strong hand around Michael's hip and guides him towards a station further into the room. 

The crowd is even bigger and Michael's reluctant to go. "We'll never get served there," he complains.

"Trust me," Ryan encourages. "Watch."

Sure enough, the guy works quickly. It's a bigger station and he has two assistants with him. Michael glances around the room quickly and tries to figure out what the concept is, but he's thirsty and impatient, the atmosphere exciting him and making him want to get on board with the buzz that everyone else is carrying.

They stand near the back of the crowd for a little while and, after he's watched the guy serve a few patrons, Michael's brain clicks. "Where are the menus?" he asks Ryan.

His friend smiles. "In the bartenders' heads," he answers, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Keep watching, look closer at what he's doing."

Michael zones in on the bartender more carefully, watching which ingredients he uses and the tools he selects. He still has a lot to learn, but Michael can tell that the drinks crossing the bar are pretty innovative and definitely bespoke - he doesn't see the same one twice. Having watched a few more drinks, Michael frowns, wondering if what he's seeing is right.

"Do you know him?" he asks Ryan.

The other man nods, but doesn't speak, instead nudging Michael further forward. When Michael eventually reaches the front, he panics.

He twists his head, asking Ryan who's pressed up behind him in the crowd, "What do I do?"

"Just tell him what you want," Ryan offers unhelpfully. "Remember when you first walked into our bar? Like that."

Michael rolls his eyes and is about to give a cutting response when a napkin appears in front of him and he lifts his gaze to meet the eyes of the bartender.

"Hi," the guy smiles.

Still unsure what to do, Michael opts for an ineloquent, "Hi," in response. The guy doesn't say any more, just waits. Michael can practically feel Ryan smirking behind him as he frantically wracks his brain for something clever to ask for.

Finally he gets there. "I'd like something with fizz, but I don't like champagne or prosecco," Michael tells the guy.

"Coming right up," the bartender smiles again. He moves away across the bar, gathering ingredients. Michael can't resist leaning back to look at Ryan and raising an eyebrow.

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Alright, grasshopper, that was a pretty good idea," he murmurs. "Pay attention, you'll learn something."

Michael turns back to the bar and watches his drink come together. When it's presented to him - perfectly garnished and rim of the glass covered with something unfamiliar - the bartender smiles again and says, "Anything else?"

Michael leans to the side and points over his shoulder. "Yeah, whatever he's having," he says, indicating towards Ryan.

The bartender beams and greets Ryan with a friendly bro-shake. Michael picks up his drink and observes the exchange sullenly, kicking himself for not anticipating this. As the guy sets to work on Ryan's drink, he asks him, "So who's this?"

"This is Michael," Ryan replies. "I'm trying to teach him a few things."

"Dude, you're set," the bartender addresses Michael this time. "Ry's a legend."

"So I hear," Michael mutters.

The bartender raises an eyebrow and finishes Ryan's drink, handing it over. As Ryan fishes out some bills to pay, the bartender leans down and speaks directly in Michael's ear, "I can only speak for his legendary bar skills bud, don't worry."

He straightens back up and gives Ryan a smile. "Good to see you man. Have a good night."

Ryan nods and raises his glass, steering Michael away to sit at a table nearby, so that they can still watch.

"You used to work together?" Michael asks once they're sat down.

Ryan takes a sip of his drink and nods. "He was on the competition circuit at the same time as me. We kinda brought the best out of each other."

"But not like that?" Michael pushes, taking a sip of his own drink and almost falling off his chair - as Ryan had promised, it's good.

"Not like that," Ryan clarifies with a shake of his head. He leans over and knocks some of the mysterious substance on the rim into Michael's glass. Michael jerks his drink away reflexively.

"Wouldn't it be in there already if I were meant to... eat it?" he asks.

Ryan shrugs. "Try it. Live a little." He leans back in his seat, surveying the room and working his way through his drink. Michael takes another sip of his own and his eyes widen in surprise as his mouth explodes. Ryan glances back at him and reaches over again, this time taking some of the substance onto his finger and licking it off.

He grins in realisation. "Popping candy. Nice touch."

"What's in yours?" Michael asks once his mouth has stopped popping.

Ryan tilts the glass, inspecting it. "Red Bull, Jaegermeister, sparkling vodka," he answers. Michael pulls a face. "What? It's a good loosener."

Michael raises an eyebrow in suspicion. "Sounds like the sort of thing I would've drunk to help me forget," he shudders.

"It's good for that too," Ryan agrees. "But just the one doesn't do any harm."

They've finished their drinks and Ryan nods towards the station again. "Want another?"

Michael nods quickly. "Know what you're gonna ask for?" Ryan pushes with a smile.

"Something purple," Michael tells him. 

Ryan laughs and bumps his shoulder. "I'm enjoying your abstract approach," he grins.

"You got a better idea?" Michael pouts defensively.

"I don't actually, dude," Ryan smiles. "Might steal yours and ask for something green."

Michael pulls a face. "Sounds risky. Nobody voluntarily consumes anything that's green."

"Bad vegetable flashbacks?" Ryan asks as they queue up.

Michael nods solemnly. "The worst."

A few minutes later, they walk away from the bar with a drink inspired by each of their favourite colours but instead of sitting down, they make their way around the room. Ryan instructs Michael to pick a station he likes the look of to order their next drinks from. He scans the room and thinks it could be a tough decision, until he spots a guy who is making liberal use of a blowtorch and he's instantly drawn in.

"Just so you know," Ryan tells him as they get closer, "we are NOT getting one of those."

Michael shrugs. "That's fine, I'll just use a lighter when I figure out how he makes that happen," he says, pointing as the guy dredges powder on to garnish a drink and sparks shoot off the top as if he's just torched a dormant volcano.

"It's cinnamon," Ryan tells him in a loud but bored tone, attracting angry stares from several bystanders. He rolls his eyes at the people who overheard and snaps, "Anybody tell you guys that Santa isn't real yet?"

"What's gotten into you?" Michael hisses.

Ryan folds his arms across his chest and tosses his head in the direction of the bartender, "This joker."

Michael rolls his eyes, "I'll order for you this time."

Ryan gapes and mouths wordlessly at him in response. Michael makes a deliberate show of making a lot of eye contact with the bartender and leans right over the counter to speak directly into his ear as Ryan huffs and scowls nearby.

A few minutes later, Michael turns and hands Ryan an elaborate drink with an indoor sparkler shoved in the top. Ryan sticks his tongue out, takes one sip of the drink and pulls a disgusted face. He leans over, takes Michael's straw in his mouth and holds Michael's gaze as he chugs the entire thing back in less than a minute, whilst Michael watches in outrage.

"I was looking forward to that!"

"With good reason, it was pretty great," Ryan concedes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He offers his drink to Michael. "Here, you have this, I'm finding the next stop on our tour."

Michael ditches his empty glass and takes Ryan's, catching him up. "You could've at least let me taste it," he protests.

Ryan stops and turns towards him. He takes Michael's hand and draws him in, pulling their bodies tightly together and kissing him - open-mouthed and sloppier than Michael would like, but achieving the desired effect of letting Michael receive a second-hand flavour of his drink.

When he pulls away, Ryan gives Michael a serious look. "Remember, baby - you want your drink with a Kiss, you have to ask for it," before turning again and winding his way through the crowd to the next station.

*

They have another three rounds - Michael's inspiration behind drinks becoming steadily more ridiculous - before Michael persuades Ryan to come back to the club with him and dance some of the alcohol off. Given their level of intoxication, their moves are definitely more grinding than dancing, but Michael's more than happy to press up against Ryan and feel their bodies move together to the beat.

Michael rolls two ideas around his fuzzy brain: the first being to take Ryan home and spend the rest of the night showing the older man around his apartment, and the second idea being to take Ryan to the bathroom and demand a blowjob there before they leave.

"I see you," Ryan shouts in his ear, bringing Michael out of his confused decision-making process. "And the answer's no."

"You don't know what I was going to suggest," Michael protests.

Ryan presses his hips against Michael's ass, grinding firmly into him and running his hand around Michael's hip to squeeze his crotch. The bartender attaches his mouth to Michael's neck and sucks firmly, murmuring straight in his ear, "I'm not blowing you in the bathroom and risking you passing out on me."

"What about if I take you back to my place - will you blow me in my own bathroom?"

"How about you show me round your apartment and we pick the best spot?"

"Done," Michael rasps. "Let's go."

*

Several hours later, all four rooms – plus the hallway – of Michael’s apartment have been duly christened. Michael and Ryan lie on their backs side by side in bed, watching the sunlight begin to stretch across the ceiling as the day dawns.

They haven’t really slept, but they have sobered up. Michael’s alarm goes off and he reaches out to switch it off.

“Seriously?” Ryan asks quietly, turning onto his side to look at Michael.

“What?”

“You’re still going to go to class?”

Michael shrugs. “Well... yeah.”

Ryan sighs and rolls onto his back again. “Well that was a waste of time then.”

Michael rolls over this time, frowning at Ryan. “I wasn’t going to call it that.”

“No?” Ryan turns his head to look at Michael. “What were you going to call it then?”

“Well... it actually felt a lot like a date to me,” Michael offers.

Ryan nods and looks back at the ceiling. “Yeah, it was,” he agrees quietly. “But it was also supposed to be me talking you into giving up already.”

“Giving up on what?”

“College,” Ryan says, shuffling onto his side again and gazing intently at Michael. “You’re good, Michael. And you can be better. But this bullshit – you coming to work four or five nights a week, sleeping over with me and then racing back uptown for classes you hate and only sleep through... what’s the point?”

Michael doesn’t answer Ryan’s question, focusing instead on the previous part of the conversation. “Do you want us to go on more dates?”

“I’ve told you what I want,” Ryan insists. He hauls himself out of bed and pads around the room searching out his clothes.

“Where are you going?” Michael asks.

“Home,” Ryan replies, “for a shower and a nap before I go to the bar and fix everything up for tonight.”

He grabs his phone from the nightstand and starts to head out of the room. “Enjoy class. I’ll text you and let you know whether I’ll need you tonight.”

*

For the first time in a long time, Michael’s actually on time for class. He even pays attention, and raises his hand and answers a question – although incorrectly. The Professor returns their graded papers just before the end of the class and Michael shoves his in his bag without looking at it.

As the students file out at the end of class, the Professor calls Michael back. And at that point, Ryan’s voice pops up in his head and Michael knows what he has to do. Before the Professor can even open her mouth, Michael informs her that he won’t be returning to class the following week, that he’ll no longer be pursuing a degree at the university.

The fact that the Professor doesn’t fight him on it speaks volumes, and Michael walks away from campus mentally prepared to follow a new path.

*

Michael hasn’t received any messages from Ryan, so he’s more than a little nervous when he arrives at the bar that afternoon with several large bags. The door to the venue is unlocked – which Michael takes as a good sign that the problems from the previous day have been fixed – and when he enters, Michael immediately spots Ryan behind the bar tidying up.

“Need a hand?” Michael calls out.

Ryan stops and turns to look at him, jaw dropping at the sight of Michael’s bags.

“Yeah, but I’d prefer an explanation,” Ryan replies.

“I took your advice,” Michael tells him. “I’m no longer a student.”

“You sell your apartment in one afternoon?” Ryan asks.

Michael shakes his head. “Just brought the important stuff, I’ll go back for the rest another time and maybe rent the place out, maybe sell it.”

“So where are you going to live?”

“With you,” Michael states. “And I’m going to work here and we’re going to make enough money that you can live your dream.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Michael confirms.

“If it’s that easy, why haven’t I done it already?”

“No idea. But... many hands, I guess?”

“Your hands are gonna have to get a lot less clumsy.”

“They already have, you said yourself that I’ve improved.”

“I think I also said that they’ve still got a long way to go,” Ryan reminds him. “So let’s get to it. Shove your bags in the back and we’ll get started.”

*

Michael and Ryan’s new routine develops from there. Michael learns more about how the bar runs, as he and Ryan are both present during the day and throughout the evening. After another week or so of research, Michael begins to work on his own cocktail.

The results are predictably mixed – to the point where Ryan smells at least three and refuses to put his mouth anywhere near them. Slowly, things improve. It’s a while before Ryan comes close to finishing a drink, but Michael persists.

As the weeks pass, his bar skills aren’t the only things Michael is working on. The snap decision to move in with Ryan – as well as working with him – becomes something that they both have to learn how to live with. They’d started out as colleagues who fucked, and transitioned to a couple who co-habit without bothering to date. Michael finds it remarkably similar to diving into a cold pool at five in the morning. At altitude.

The first few days had been a predictable fuckfest of Ryan well and truly welcoming Michael to his new home. When the initial excitement of being able to do whatever they wanted to each other whenever they wanted had worn off, they moved on to trying to impress each other with feats of domesticity. Michael displayed impressive skills in keeping the laundry basket empty, and Ryan ensured that once it was dry, every item of clothing they owned was meticulously returned to his incredibly organised closet and drawers.

In the mornings, Michael would produce breakfast and coffee – normally delivered to Ryan in bed – to ensure that their day started well, before nagging Ryan to work on his sketchbook, or whatever burgeoning masterpiece was taking shape on his easel. Once he’d tidied up after breakfast, Michael liked to watch Ryan draw or paint as tallied up their tips from the night before and caught up on emails or read a book.

Together, they’d get ready for work and fall into their already-established routine at the bar, but nights ended differently. Some nights they’d still leave the bar in a vague mess, running back to the apartment to fall straight into bed and be all over each other. But increasingly they took it in turns for one of them to clear up and the other to head home and scrape together something that resembled a nutritious meal, which would fuel their exploits for the rest of the night.

The routine quickly felt comfortable and familiar, even though Michael did notice the occasional persistent annoying habit which Ryan had – such as his inability to squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube, and being unaware of when the trash needed to be taken out. Ryan too would snap every now and then, telling Michael off for leaving his shoes in the middle of the living room floor when he’d flopped down on the couch and kicked them off; or for abandoning his own towel somewhere in the apartment, forgetting about it and borrowing Ryan’s the next time he needed one, leading to both towels being MIA.

Michael doesn’t stop to think about how he feels about Ryan and their domestic situation, as is his habit when something seems to be working without him putting any effort or thought into it: nothing is wrong exactly, so he chooses to allow things to bubble along in the environment which has developed around him. After a lot more trial and error, he also feels like he’s getting closer to perfecting his own drink, when Ryan manages to empty a few glasses that he puts in front of him, and starts offering feedback other than grimaces.

Michael’s quietly confident that he’s nailed it when he presents Ryan with a drink one afternoon which is beautifully crafted and garnished. Ryan eyes the glass approvingly and even sits down to drink it but, to Michael’s devastation, Ryan grimaces after one sip.

“Dude, that’s awful,” he announces.

“What?!” Michael responds, aghast.

“It’s way too complicated,” Ryan tells him.

“But cocktails _are_ complicated!” Michael protests. “Some of the best ones have, like nine or more ingredients!”

“Who are you aiming it at?” Ryan backpedals, trying to get Michael back on track.

“Women!” Michael cries in exasperation. “Who are fucking complicated creatures.”

Ryan nods sagely. “They are. But they don’t need to be knocked over and left completely bamboozled by your clusterfuck of a drink.”

The verbal smackdown causes Michael to storm out for the rest of the afternoon, slinking back in quietly just as the bar gets busy. He joins Ryan behind the bar without acknowledging him and only engages him in conversation when absolutely necessary for the rest of the evening.

There’s no gratuitous touching, no flirtatious eye contact and no ripping each other’s clothes off on the way up the stairs to Ryan’s apartment. Michael grunts in response to Ryan’s, “good night” and moves away when Ryan reaches out to tentatively wrap a hand around his hip. Michael curls up on his side facing away from Ryan, trying to figure out how to please both him and the women they serve.

*

In the end, it happens by accident. Michael leaves a shaker unattended to answer the phone, and when he ends the call, hangs up and turns around, he finds Ryan pouring the contents into a glass.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, storming over to Ryan.

“Helping out with your process,” Ryan shrugs. He hands Michael a lighter and a cinnamon shaker. “I assume you wanted these?”

Michael snatches them from him. “I wasn’t done yet.”

“I think you are done,” Ryan shrugs. Michael gives him a look that could possibly kill so Ryan explains. “You’ve been overcooking them all. So I thought I’d interrupt and see if that helped. Go on, add your garnish.”

Michael seethes for a second longer before realising that the drink is now poured so he may as well finish what Ryan started. He dutifully garnishes the glass with a strawberry, sparks up the lighter and dusts cinnamon on the drink.

Michael stands back, arms folded as he waits for Ryan to taste it. The other man doesn’t move.

“You waiting for a klaxon or something?” Michael asks.

“No, I’m waiting for you to taste it.”

“But you always go first.”

“That’s the other mistake. How are you supposed to know you’ve created what you wanted if you don’t try it first?”

Michael rolls his eyes at Ryan, grabs a straw and dips it into the liquid, taking a taste of it. His eyes widen as his creation hits his tongue and Ryan watches him expectantly.

“Well?” Ryan asks.

“Go ahead,” Michael nods. “That’s it.”

After one sip, Ryan is agreed. 

*

The menus are taken out and burned that afternoon. Following a lot of thought, Michael dubs his cocktail the Flying Spark, and it goes on sale alongside the Hard Core and all of the other drinks in their repertoire that night.

Ryan’s vision of the menu-less bar isn’t an instant success – he and Michael have to work hard in order for it to be effective, but the bold move does eventually start to take off. Word of mouth brings an increase in patrons, which in turn garners them cautious glances from their competition. A semi-friendly rivalry begins with a few other local bars. Michael wonders briefly if Ryan will begin to hanker for the competition circuit again, but it isn’t mentioned and Michael is happy instead for the bar to be reviewed by a website and a newspaper within a feature also covering two of their main competitors.

The notoriety this brings again increases their profile, with both of them gaining a kind of cult celebrity status for a short time. Michael finds it strange that people want their pictures taken with himself and Ryan, but he finds himself swept along in these moments which occur during busy shifts, mindful that the customers need to be pleased and that if this one thing will do it, he’ll suck it up for the ten seconds of his time that it takes. 

The best news, of course, is that their income steadily increases as the tips continue to roll in on top of Ryan’s profit-share. Despite Michael’s promise, neither of them discuss the long-term future. Michael assumes that they’ve both got a figure in mind of how much money they’d like behind them before they contemplate doing something as bold as looking for an alternative career. For the most part, he’s content with the lack of plan – the rigidity and relentlessness of his former life was something he’d never enjoyed – though he does find himself hoping that Ryan will agree to taking some sort of extended vacation so that they can travel and tick some other experiences off the list before throwing themselves headlong into a new venture.

As they work all night and either sleep or work during the day, Michael barely notices the shift in seasons. He’s glad for that, because on the rare occasion that he does notice the temperature gradually increasing, or catches a fleeting glimpse of sport on TV which serves as a reminder that winter has shifted to spring or spring to summer, the elements serve as a reminder of what he should’ve been doing, had his original life plan come to fruition. When he enters the bar one day to find Ryan sat on the customer side talking to a reporter, however, Michael is very rudely reminded that it is indeed summer and he can no longer ignore this fact.

Ryan beams when he sees Michael walk in, and quickly introduces a speechless Michael to the journalist. Michael receives an elbow to the ribs when he fails to shake the guy’s hand, but he still doesn’t accept the shake.

Instead he mutters, “No comment,” turns around and walks straight back out of the bar and towards Ryan’s apartment.

He gets half a block before Ryan, yelling and angry, catches up with him. “What the fuck was that?” he demands.

Michael works hard to rein in his anger. “That,” Michael spits, “was the bastard who was camped outside the hospital when I got injured. The man who pestered my family and my coach and my friends until one of them started accepting his money for tip offs. Who then proceeded to follow me around during my lowest point, taking pictures of me doing things any normal person does and making them out to be totally heinous. I’m not going anywhere near him.”

“Fuck,” Ryan bites his lip, reaching out for Michael. “I’m sorry. I had...”

“Of course you didn’t,” Michael replies, still angry at the reporter for doing his job and tracking Michael down. His mind is swirling, realising that, with the Olympics approaching – the ones which were supposed to be _his_ Games – of course someone was going to do this; old feelings of missed opportunities and resentment bubbling to the surface having not been dealt with properly.

“You never said...” Ryan begins.

“Why would I?” Michael shouts angrily. “We never talk about that stuff.”

“Because you don’t bring it up! You didn’t tell me who you are and what you did before, I figured a lot of it out myself and dragged the rest out of you! And after that night, I left it alone. I assumed that if you wanted to talk about it, you’d come to me. Because we’re adults, Michael, and that’s what adults do. I’m not a fucking mind-reader. I thought you were over it,” Ryan yells back.

And suddenly, it’s like someone’s thrown a bucket of cold water over them. They both stare at each other, both shocked by what Ryan said. Ryan wants to claw the words out of the air, but they’re dancing in front of him, taunting Michael with everything he can’t have. Ryan mouths and starts to speak, but Michael holds a hand up to stop him.

“I just,” he finally says, dropping his arm to clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides, “need to be alone.”

He doesn’t give Ryan a chance to say any more, or reach out again, before he turns and continues down the street.

*

It’s two months before Michael’s forced to confront the fact that he ran away. He spends his time behind a different bar, learning what a new clientele likes. He makes sure that nobody knows his full story, he earns his place via the merit of the skills he learned through Ryan and his days off involve nothing more strenuous than a round of golf or working on his tan.

He returns the messages his family send with brief replies to offer proof of life but little more. He knows that they’re upset, but he doubts that they are as hurt as he is, so he doesn’t let it bother him. Michael’s new bar is even more anonymous than his previous one – customers rarely last longer than two weeks, and that suits Michael. He’s quick enough to learn what they like so that he can reap the benefits in tips, but the relationship between him and them doesn’t last so long that they have to start sharing life stories. Michael doesn’t know why he didn’t do this sooner.

The peak vacation season has tailed off when Michael’s isolation is rudely interrupted. He’s setting up the bar one morning when a telltale splash and the slap of flesh on tile announces the arrival of a guest at the bar.

“Sorry, we’re not open yet,” Michael says without turning to look at his guest. “But the good news is that you only have to wait another ten minutes.”

“That’s okay, it’s been two months already,” comes the reply.

Michael drops the clipboard and pen he’s holding and whirls around to confirm that he’s not gone mad. Sure enough, the guest sat partially-submerged at the swim up bar is Ryan.

“You really thought I’d just let you go?” Ryan asks quietly.

Michael shrugs, picks his clipboard back up and continues his stock take. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk,” Ryan tells him. “So I came prepared to at least start off.”

“I’m busy, Ryan,” Michael mutters.

“You could do that in your sleep,” Ryan replies. “I’m gonna guess that the only things which get touched behind that bar apart from glasses, ice and garnishes are the tequilas and the rums.”

“We get through a lot of vodka, actually,” Michael tells him tersely.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Of course, anything that goes down easily as a shooter. What a fucking surprise.”

Michael slams his clipboard down and leans over the bar to hiss in Ryan’s face. “No, I’m not flairing constantly. But yes, I am raking it in in tips. Are you going to tell me why you’re here or not?”

“I can’t be here for a vacation like everyone else?” Ryan asks.

“No.”

“Your sister called...”

Michael laughs sarcastically. “Fantastic. My family sent you.”

“If you’ll let me finish...” Ryan’s hackles are raised and he leans further over the bar to confront Michael. “They are _worried_ about you.”

“So why aren’t they here themselves?”

“It’s not my place to ask.”

“What is your place then?”

“Well I was going to lead with, ‘I miss you’ but given your combative attitude I’m not so sure about that anymore,” Ryan bites. He takes a steadying breath. “No, that’s a lie. I do miss you. And I’m worried too.”

“I’m fine,” Michael cuts in.

Ryan assesses him briefly. “I’ll agree with that to an extent. You look good, actually. The sun suits you. But I don’t think you’re fine.”

“Are we seriously having this argument?”

“Not right now,” Ryan sighs. He bites his lip before speaking again. “I’m sorry that you got upset, Michael. I’m sorry that your life didn’t turn out how you wanted and that you’re going to be reminded of that pretty publicly for a while. But I’m disappointed as well as sorry.”

Michael turns away and carries on setting the bar up, trying to ignore Ryan. He manages for all of thirty seconds before the other man speaks again. “Is this your dream?”

Michael whirls around and snaps at Ryan, “What kind of fucking crass question is that, after you try and apologise to ask me if this is my dream?”

“You don’t remember, do you?” Ryan says sadly.

“What the... you’re not even making sense!”

“What did you say to me the day you quit college?” Ryan persists.

Michael throws his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t fucking know. Probably ‘pass me the Kahlua’ and ‘I’ll go get some more limes’ and ‘where are the bitters’ amongst a bunch of other things given that we worked that night.”

“Will you stop being a pain in the ass for two minutes?”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”

“You promised to help me. You said we could make enough money that I could live my dream.”

Michael laughs. “Money. Of course. You really think I have some of that working here?” He punctuates the question with a sweeping gesture around himself.

“Yes, I thought that you making dozens of Tequila Sunrises and Margaritas and Sex on the Beach with a few shots thrown in each hour for good measure would be raking the cash in,” Ryan tells him sarcastically. “Since when have I ever been anywhere near you for the money?”

“Since I found you talking to that douche.”

“I didn’t know who he was,” Ryan reminds him. “And I’ve told you that I’m sorry. You want to know why I really came?”

Michael shrugs and tries to look like he could care less.

Ryan’s tone softens. “Because I miss you. When you first walked into my bar all lost and looking for food – but definitely not interested in a strip joint – I didn’t know it but you turned my life upside down. I was just... coasting. You gave me something else to focus on and a different perspective and when you showed me that there could be a way out of my nocturnal lifestyle, I fell in love with that. And then – and this bit’s corny as fuck – I fell in love with you too.”

Ryan pauses and Michael considers cutting in, but Ryan holds a hand up and continues. “And I know that you might not be at that point. Which means that you probably didn’t realise what exactly you said when you offered to help me. So I’ll explain: you said you’d help me to get there. And my brain made a jump and thought that, if you helped me to set myself up, I’d keep us going. Us, Michael. You and me. That we’d move forward together. Have a normal life that involves like, daylight. And not in a place like this. Having a house and a dog and maybe even a kid but definitely something that involves working during the day on weekdays and having dinner in our own house at a normal time like normal people and spending weekends together doing whatever we want, rather than having bills waved in our face and stupid girls asking for Amaretto fucking Daisies.”

“You rehearse that on the plane?” Michael asks quietly.

Ryan blushes and mumbles, “No, it just kinda... came out.”

Michael nods. “So do you have a plan?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not gonna like it, am I?”

Ryan shrugs. “Maybe not. But I think it’s worth a go. That’s also why I asked if this is your dream. Because if it is...”

“Which it isn’t.”

Ryan lets out a sigh of relief. “Good. You had me worried that I’d be making frozen Margaritas for the rest of my life.”

“Why would you be doing that?”

Ryan blinks. “Did you zone out for the first part of the conversation? I want to be with you, doofus. So if this was what made you really happy, I’d do it. Like, I’d hate it but... whatever.”

“Fortunately for you, I hate it too.”

Ryan frowns. “So why are you still here?”

Michael’s about to answer when he’s joined behind the bar by a petite girl who’s also wearing the hotel uniform. She doesn’t seem to notice Ryan, instead walking past Michael and giving his ass a squeeze along the way, picking up the clipboard and continuing their work.

Ryan stares in shock as she writes a few things down, starting up a conversation which doesn’t involve him. “Morning, handsome,” she smiles, flicking her hair and glancing up at Michael.

Michael blushes but doesn’t get a chance to reply, as another guest swims up to the bar and sits down two seats away from Ryan. As Michael heads over to serve his customer, Ryan drops into the pool, quickly making it to the other side by swimming underwater. Michael glances up from the drink he’s constructing to see Ryan push himself out of the pool, grab a towel and disappear across the deck towards the hotel.

*

It’s a busier day at the bar than it should’ve been and Michael doesn’t manage to take a break other than to run to the bathroom all day. As soon as they’ve stopped serving in the early evening, he abandons his colleague and makes a beeline for the hotel reception, even though he’s convinced Ryan will be long gone.

He heads for the front desk, hoping that one of his friends will be working so that he can charm Ryan’s details out of them, but as he’s busy trying to figure out what to do when he does and not looking where he’s going, he ends up almost flat on his ass when he bumps into a couple who are checking in.

Michael stumbles backwards, apologising profusely and only makes matters worse by backing up into someone else. Someone who smells and feels familiar.

“After that little exchange this morning I didn’t think we’d find ourselves up against each other so soon,” Ryan says sarcastically.

Michael blushes and turns slowly to face the other man. Ryan raises an eyebrow at him. “Got anything you want to tell me?” Ryan asks.

Michael nods. “Yes. I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Running away is your style, not mine.”

“We should talk,” Michael mumbles.

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “Preferably somewhere we won’t get interrupted this time.”

“You made your point already,” Michael mutters. “You’re pissed, I get it.”

“I... just follow me,” Ryan replies, leading the way towards the elevators.

They head to Ryan’s room in silence, accompanied by other guests for most of the trip. Ryan lets them in and stands expectantly in the middle of the room. Michael takes the cue from him and stays standing too, though manoeuvres himself to stand between Ryan and the balcony, trying to signal that he’s not going to bolt. He hopes that Ryan doesn’t push him over the railing instead.

“She doesn’t mean anything,” Michael blurts out.

Ryan laughs. “Oh, even better.”

Michael frowns. “I’m supposed to be okay with you replacing me with someone who not only is female, but also means about as much to you as jerking off does?” Ryan asks.

“I didn’t know that you loved me,” Michael says dumbly.

“Love,” Ryan corrects. “Present tense. Fuck knows why.” He folds his arms over his chest and waits for Michael to continue.

Michael swallows, trying to figure out where to go next without stepping on another landmine. “I’m sorry,” he says. “She just... I’ve not been with anyone since I left. Not wanted to. We had a staff party three nights ago and I was wasted for the first time in ages and she came onto me and...” he sighs. “Not a lot happened that night but I haven’t been able to get rid of her.”

“Or tell her that you’re gay,” Ryan retorts, eyebrow raised.

“Or that,” Michael admits.

“So you are, then?”

“Am what?”

“Gay.”

Michael looks directly at Ryan for the first time. “Yes, Ryan, I’m gay. I’m the one who hit on you, remember?”

“Well I’m glad you remember something about New York.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Michael tells him. “I missed you too. You never judged me, you didn’t care who I was. You just opened yourself up and let me into your work and your life without asking any questions. I had no idea what you’d done until I didn’t have it anymore.”

Ryan nods, but doesn’t say anything in response.

“I made you a promise,” Michael continues. “And I haven’t fulfilled it yet. But I think I want to.”

“You think?” Ryan asks, incredulous.

“I...” Michael flounders. “I don’t know what I want, Ryan. You know that you want to stop bartending. You have another talent. I don’t. And I don’t know yet whether you’re just saying these things to get me on side so that I’ll help you or whether you really want to do this.”

“This what?”

“Us. The house, the dog, the maybe kid. Spending daylight hours together on weekends, eating together at a normal time in the evenings. Or am I just part of the escape plan?”

“You know what?” Ryan retorts. “I don’t think I know anymore. I came here to get you back – not just because I need help at the bar, not just because I need money, but because I need you. But after that little situation today, I’m not sure I know who you are anymore. And if I don’t know who you are, I can’t know whether I do want that or not.”

“You want some time to think about it?” Michael seethes, sitting himself down in the armchair by the desk. “Or maybe ask me a little more about myself, so that you can figure out if you really do like me.”

Ryan shakes his head. “Fuck you. You’re right, I didn’t ask questions, I did accept you and teach you a whole lot of stuff and made room in my life for you and cared for you. And maybe I decided on all of that too quickly and it was a big fucking mistake.”

He turns around and stalks out of the room, letting the door slam behind him. Michael sighs as the door clicks closed. He contemplates running after Ryan, but isn’t sure what to say that hasn’t already been said, and knows he can’t take any of his rash statements back.

He’s spent the past month trying to run from his problems and become anonymous again, and he’s somehow succeeded in staying away from any Olympics coverage and managed not to draw any attention to himself.

As he rolls a few ideas around his head – thinking about the girl who’s been trying to get his attention, the job he’s bored of and the lives he’s tried to leave behind – Michael waits to see if Ryan returns. 

What strikes Michael is that he wants Ryan to come back, even if it means another argument, because he just wants to see Ryan again, talk to him, enjoy his company. And with the realisation that he wants to see Ryan again comes the knowledge that Michael wants Ryan in his life. Which leads Michael to work on a plan to win Ryan back.

*

The next morning, Michael takes a deep breath and knocks on Ryan’s door. He waits, listening closely and hears some shuffling getting closer before the lock clicks and Ryan edges the door open.

Before Ryan can speak, Michael jumps in. “Hey,” he smiles softly. “I know it’s early, but I was thinking about what you said and... well, it’s my day off. So I was hoping we could make the most of it.”

He steps back, holding up the tray he’s carrying. “And I also know it’s lame to try and win you over with food, but I’ve got to start somewhere.”

Ryan wordlessly steps back into the room, opening the door and gesturing for Michael to enter. Michael sets the tray down on what would’ve been his side of the bed, and stands next to it waiting for Ryan to get back in.

Ryan settles against the headboard and watches as Michael removes the cloche to reveal a large plate of pancakes and bacon. Michael pours a glass of juice and offers it to Ryan, who takes it with a nod.

“Thanks,” he says. “Breakfast smells good.”

“No problem, get stuck in,” Michael offers, turning away to turn on the coffee pot. 

“This place is worth the bomb they charge, the chef’s good,” Ryan remarks.

“Yeah, well, your chef this morning was Michael,” Michael replies, waiting for the coffee to brew. He doesn’t turn to look at Ryan, but can picture the look on his face.

“Uh,” Ryan falters. “Well, extra thank you, then.”

Michael pours some coffee and fixes it the way Ryan likes before turning around to place it on the tray. He sits at the end of the bed, away from Ryan who’s busy housing his breakfast. Michael picks at the sheets, waiting a minute before re-starting the conversation.

“So, um, do you have any plans for the day?” Michael asks.

Ryan swallows his bite of food and shakes his head. “No, I... no.”

Michael nods. “That’s good. Because I also hoped we might start that spending daylight hours together plan. Like... I can show you around.”

“Do you often entertain guests on your day off?” Ryan asks.

“Never,” Michael tells him. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

“Okay,” Ryan agrees. “What did you have in mind?”

Michael stands up, smiling a little. “It’s a surprise. Meet me in the lobby in half an hour.”

He heads over to the door and turns to speak again just before he leaves. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

*

Half an hour later, Michael greets Ryan with a smile. Ryan responds anxiously with, “Am I dressed appropriately? You didn’t give me any clues so...”

Michael gives him an appraising glance. “It’s perfect. Let’s go, your chariot awaits.” 

“My what?” Ryan asks, following him outside.

Michael stops and gestures to a golf cart with a grin. “I did say I’d show you around.”

“MP,” Ryan eyes the golf cart suspiciously. “I’ve never been anywhere near a golf course.”

“Fortunately,” Michael replies, getting into the driving seat, “I have. So I’m going to teach you.”

“We couldn’t just hang out by the pool?” Ryan asks, reluctantly getting in.

Michael sets off before Ryan can change his mind. “Well, as you demonstrated yesterday, you don’t need swimming lessons – nice dolphin kicks, by the way – and I thought it might be fun to try and teach you something.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “This has got ‘terrible idea’ written all over it. You’re the least patient person I’ve ever met.”

Michael glances over at him. “Well... then it’s good that I get the chance to work on that.”

They round the final bend and Michael stops the cart by the first tee. “Ready?”

Ryan nods. “As I’ll ever be.” He gets out of the cart and stands looking at the clubs in the back slightly bewildered. “You really are gonna have to start me from the beginning.”

Michael smiles and hands him a bag. “No problem, we’ve got all day.”

*

Michael takes the decision to just play nine holes very early on and, as a result, it’s an enjoyable morning. Ryan learns some things fairly quickly, but is still very much a beginner. They both take the scenario as more of an opportunity to relax and spend time together away from a dark and noisy bar.

The sun warms their skin as they work round the course, catching up on parts of their lives that they’ve missed as well as learning new things about each other. When they reach the clubhouse without being defeated by the nine holes behind them, Ryan looks pretty desperate for a drink, but Michael doesn’t let him sit down.

“Wait here,” he instructs, leaving Ryan on the terrace as he ducks inside for a minute. Ryan does as he’s told and Michael soon reappears carrying a large basket.

Ryan’s eyebrow shoots up again, but he waits for Michael’s explanation. “Lunch,” Michael grins. “C’mon, I know the perfect spot.”

He leads the way along a narrow path through some shrubbery and up a small slope which opens out to reveal a garden, complete with small pond and welcoming grass to sit on.

They settle on the grass and Michael unpacks the food. As he’s getting drinks organised, Michael notices Ryan eyeing the spread hungrily and laughs. “Don’t be shy, it’s cool. Help yourself.”

Ryan needs no further persuasion and digs in, piling a plate with the treats Michael has arranged and getting stuck in.

A few minutes later, having managed to mumble various comments to the effect of, “thank you, this is great,” Ryan slows down and considers their surroundings more fully.

“So, golf,” he says. “You seem pretty into it.”

Michael wants to roll his eyes at Ryan’s lack of subtlety but holds himself back. “I enjoy it,” he shrugs. “It’s a fun hobby. I want it to stay that way.”

Ryan watches him carefully as he answers and nods his understanding. “Right. Back to the drawing board then.”

The conversation swings back around to a topic they’d covered earlier, of trying to outdo each other with wild tales of things they’ve seen customers do. Ryan thinks he’s nailed it with his story of the guy he’d caught peeing into an empty glass when stood at the bar as Ryan fixed his next round of drinks, but Michael trumps him by recalling the couple who had thought they were being incredibly subtle when occupying the same stool at his swim up bar and casually having themselves some pool sex.

Ryan stares open-mouthed before asking several questions at once, “But... your bar’s only open during the day. So other people were there?”

Michael nods. “It was busy, too. Which, I guess, actually made it less obvious. Because nobody was really looking at them apart from me.”

“Was it obvious?”

Michael laughs. “Totally! She was wobbling around all over the place, grinding on his lap, he was all unfocused and sliding about too and kept groping her boobs or sometimes holding onto the bar to try and hold them up. They were a mess. But they were enjoying themselves.”

“You didn’t, like, try and stop them?”

“How do you do that?” Michael asks. “Like say, ‘um, excuse me, but no fucking in my swim up bar’? That’d just draw attention to it. They didn’t last long, I was more worried about them faceplanting in the water afterwards.”

Ryan wrinkles his nose, “But dude, that means there’s jizz in the pool...”

Michael shrugs. “I’ve seen worse in pools. I’ve _done_ worse in pools.”

Ryan gapes at him again and Michael continues. “Don’t tell me you’ve never peed in a pool.”

“I... of course I have but...”

“What, professional swimmers don’t?” Michael laughs. “Dude, we’re the worst for it. I used to spend hours in the pool, you don’t get out to pee. Sometimes you barely make it to the deck to puke during practice. Pools are chlorinated, a little bit of pee hurts nobody.”

Ryan leans back on the grass, shaking his head. “Well I don’t think I’ll ever look at you in the same way again now.”

Michael lies on his back next to Ryan. “Yeah, I didn’t look at those guests the same the next day either. I walked past them when they were checking out in the morning and gave them a wink. They looked pretty embarrassed.”

“Good work, man,” Ryan smiles. He shakes his head. “Sex at a swim up bar.”

Michael’s desperate to ask Ryan all sorts of questions, but is careful not to push the conversation into the context of their own sex lives. Since Ryan made his presence known, they haven’t touched each other, and they both seem to be experiencing a certain level of anxiety and caution regarding resuming a romantic or physical relationship. They’ve made an unspoken agreement to work on other elements of their friendship first, so they both stick to the rules for the time being.

*

They doze off side by side in the garden and are woken up a while later by Michael’s alarm going off. Ryan groans and scrubs a hand across his face.

“You gotta work?” he asks groggily.

Michael sits up and stretches. “Nah, day off, remember?”

Ryan nods in vague recognition. Michael smiles as he watches Ryan return to a greater level of consciousness. He stands up and packs the picnic things away. “You have somewhere to be,” Michael tells Ryan as he closes the basket.

Ryan sits up looking confused. “I do?”

Michael nods. “Yup, got another surprise for you.”

Ryan groans, flopping back down. “I am really not up for another physical activity, MP.”

“That’s fine, all you’ve got to do is lie down and look good.”

Michael picks up the basket and starts to head down the path. “You’ll enjoy it, I promise!”

*

Ryan does enjoy the next part of his day: Michael leaves him at the door of the hotel spa and Ryan’s soon laid out on the massage table with two therapists working his muscles.

When his time is – sadly – up, Ryan’s left to doze on the table for a little while, covered in towels to keep him warm. There’s a soft knock at the door and Ryan groans reluctantly.

“Okay, I’m up,” he calls out.

The door opens before Ryan can haul himself up, and someone enters the room. “It’s okay,” he recognises the voice of one of the therapists, “you can stay for a while yet. I just came to deliver this.”

Ryan opens his eyes to see her setting a drink and an envelope down on the counter. He’s about to go back to sleep, but when his eyes focus in on what he expected to be a glass of water, he’s suddenly wide awake.

Ryan quickly sits up and reaches out to grab the drink, inspecting it. “We don’t normally allow alcohol in the spa,” the therapist smiles, “but this is a special circumstance.”

Ryan nods a little. “Thanks,” he says quietly, turning the glass around in his hand. The cocktail is freshly made and he knows without taking a sip what it is. What he doesn’t know is how Michael managed to make it.

He sets the drink back down for a second and tears open the envelope as the therapist backs out of the room.

_“Hope you’re feeling good after that. Thought you might need a drink... If you’d like to join me, I’ve organised dinner. Head out towards the golf course, but take the left hand fork until you find me.”_

Ryan re-reads the message and shivers, picking up a towel and wrapping it around himself. He stands up and grabs his drink, tentatively taking a sip. He shakes his head ruefully and as he goes upstairs to get ready, Ryan makes a mental note to ask Michael how many tries it took him to perfect the Hard Core.

*

Ryan finds Michael on the beach in a sunken seating area, where dinner has been set out around a fire pit. Michael greets Ryan with a smile and a glass of wine.

“You look very relaxed,” Michael comments knowingly.

“Yes, I feel thoroughly spoiled,” Ryan admits. “I could definitely get used to two massage therapists working at my ageing body once a day.”

Michael laughs, “Maybe I am living the dream.” He pauses, looking Ryan over carefully, and his carefully-rehearsed speech and accompanying questions disappear from the tip of his tongue.

Instead, Michael gestures towards the table and fumbles his words. “We, uh, food’s getting cold.”

He blushes and clears his throat as Ryan brushes past him to sit down. They start to eat and after a few mouthfuls of slightly tense silence, Michael puts his fork down.

“Can we just...” he trails off without really starting.

Ryan sets his cutlery down and turns to look at Michael with a nod. “Yeah, I think we need to.”

Michael looks down at his plate as he speaks. “I had this whole speech planned,” he shakes his head. “And a ton of questions that I thought needed answering. But now that we’re here... I think there’s only one thing I need to say.”

He steels himself and looks up at Ryan. “I want in. I don’t know what this big plan of yours is, but I know that it’s something that you think will make you happy and I want to help. Because you make me happy. And I think that together we...”

Michael’s at a slight loss having tried to explain himself and what he wants and why. So he reaches over and impulsively grabs Ryan’s hand, breaking down the invisible barrier which had been built between them. “When I think about the future now, it revolves around you. Not bars or girls or pools, you. Making you happy. Living our lives together. And,” he pauses to laugh, “I think it sounds a little nuts. Because we leapt in and for all I know you could be planning some grand expedition to Mars or something. But I don’t care what kind of crazy you’ve got planned, because whatever it is is your kind and I want that to be my kind too.”

“I...” Ryan flounders. Michael squeezes Ryan’s hand, trying to encourage him to continue. Instead, Ryan leans over and kisses him impulsively. Michael freezes in shock briefly, before letting go of Ryan’s hand and wrapping his arms around the other man, drawing him in and returning the kiss.

When they eventually pull away to breathe, Michael murmurs against Ryan’s lips, “Is that a yes?”

Ryan starts to nod, then seems to remember his anxieties and pulls back further, biting his lip. “You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

Michael laughs nervously. “The way you’ve been going on about it, I’m now worried it involves some kind of killing spree or something.”

“Nobody’s gonna die,” Ryan reassures him. He takes a deep breath. “I want a studio. I want to paint for a living.”

“Well...” Michael’s startled, though knows he shouldn’t be. “That... makes total sense. That’s not a crazy idea. You’re talented. I think... I think that’ll work. Like... can I help you run it?”

Ryan frowns. “I... first off, I haven’t told you yet how I’m gonna get there...”

Michael cuts in. “Doesn’t matter, let me help. I can sell my...”

Ryan holds his hand up. “I knew you’d say that. I need your help. But I don’t want money.”

Michael nods but doesn’t say anything, waiting for Ryan to continue. 

“And... really? I don’t expect you to help with the business. Like, your dreams surely don’t involve hanging pictures and taking phone calls and paying bills and stuff?”

Michael takes Ryan’s hand again. “I want your dream to work. I want you to have this. And I want to help. Have I made myself clear?”

Ryan gazes back at him and nods slowly. “Good,” Michael says firmly. “So. What’s the hare-brained scheme that’ll get us there, if we’re not using the sensible option of me selling my apartment and you selling your share of the bar?”

Ryan swallows and withdraws his hand. He takes a deep breath. “New York. There’s this new contest for amateurs. And they think that throwing a lot of money at it will make it a huge success. So the prize pot’s big. Bigger than anything I managed to win. And the competition will be tough but... I’m not allowed to do it.”

“So you can’t enter and want me to?”

Ryan nods.

“When is it?”

“Two weeks from now,” Ryan tells Michael quietly.

Michael’s eyes almost shoot out of his head. Ryan rushes on to try and keep him calm. “Dude. You’ve got this. Like... you figured out my drink,” he laughs. “I kinda hate you for that, by the way.”

Michael blushes and mumbles, “Yeah, well, you know mine, so it’s only fair.”

Ryan laughs again. “I guess so. And you didn’t get it quite right,” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Michael swears under his breath. “Hey, did I say it was bad?” Ryan asks, trying to catch Michael’s eye.

Michael looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously,” Ryan tells him. “I want to know exactly what you did. Because whatever you did improved it.”

Ryan waits in anticipation of Michael’s answer, but he just gets a mischievous grin in response. Michael leans forward again, murmuring into Ryan’s ear. “I’ll show you when I win.” He pulls away again, smiling.

“That sounds like a yes,” Ryan says, slowly breaking into a matching grin.

Michael nods. “It is a yes.”

Ryan launches himself at Michael, pulling him into a tight hug and toppling them both over onto the sand. Michael grabs onto Ryan to prevent himself from getting crushed and watches as the other man grins down at him.

“You trying to ask me something else too?” Michael asks, feeling his body heat up under the weight of Ryan.

Ryan runs a hand up Michael’s side steadily, watching his fingers move upwards. “Maybe,” he replies quietly.

“I’ve gotta tell you something,” Michael murmurs. Ryan snaps his head up, concerned by Michael’s tone. 

Michael adopts a serious expression. “I’m not a sex on the beach fan,” he admits.

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Sex on the Beach or sex on the beach?”

Michael shakes his head slowly. “I don’t like either of them.”

Ryan swallows, his mind racing. “Well... I can’t say I’ve ever tried sex on the beach, but I guess the whole sand in your ass thing isn’t so fun...” he considers.

“You know what I would like to try, though?” Michael asks, smiling slowly.

“Tell me,” Ryan murmurs, leaning down closer to Michael.

“Sex in the pool.”

Ryan makes a disapproving face. “After telling me that you regularly pee in it?”

“I haven’t been in the pool here,” Michael tells him. “I spend all day staring at it, I haven’t had a chance to go in. But if I’m going to quit my job and walk out tomorrow to go back to New York with you and learn how to win this contest...”

Ryan still doesn’t look convinced, so Michael closes the gap between them, running a hand down the other man’s back and leaning in to nip at Ryan’s lips.

“Think about it, baby,” Michael murmurs. “Pools are my thing. Are you really telling me you don’t want to put my underwater skills to the test?”

Ryan instantly scrambles up and offers Michael his hand. Rather than hauling himself up, Michael pulls Ryan back down, tugging their bodies tightly together and kissing him hard. Ryan moans into his mouth and writhes against him impatiently.

“I missed you,” Ryan groans. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, you hear?”

“I won’t,” Michael promises.

“I mean, at least you chose somewhere hot and pretty to run to,” Ryan thinks aloud, nipping at Michael’s jaw. “But if you’re gonna be a kept man, you’re gonna have to behave yourself.”

Michael laughs. “You’ll be tying me to the kitchen next, won’t you?”

“Fuck no,” Ryan murmurs before getting up again. “I’ll tie you to the bed. Now c’mon, let’s go and figure out how those people fucked at your bar.”

Michael gets up this time and takes Ryan’s hand, the pair of them hurrying through the hotel to the pool. When they reach the deck, Michael pauses to undress, but as he removes his t-shirt he hears a loud splash. He pulls his top off and spots Ryan treading water in front of him.

“Well that’s not how it goes,” Michael tells him, observing the fact that Ryan’s still fully-clothed.

“It’d be a whole lot sexier,” Ryan’s voice shakes as he’s shivering, “if you joined me.”

Michael considers this. “Water’s a little deep over here, baby. Why don’t you head on over to the bar and I’ll serve you there?”

Ryan frowns, but as Michael strides across the deck to the bar and disappears through a door behind it, he has little choice but to follow. The water’s deep in the middle of the pool, but it’s only up to Ryan’s waist by the bar, and he settles on one of the submerged stools, awaiting Michael’s appearance.

Ryan’s left waiting for several minutes, but Michael eventually reappears, clad only in a Speedo which, even by Ryan’s Floridian standards, is minute. Michael’s left the strings loose, dangling tantalisingly between his hips and making Ryan’s fingers twitch with the desire to reach out and use them to pull Michael closer. He swallows, watching Michael swagger over to the bar.

“Good evening,” he purrs. “What can I get you?”

“Well you could start by getting naked and into the pool with me,” Ryan tells him.

Michael leans over the bar, looking Ryan up and down. “Are you aware that this bar has a strict dress code, sir?”

“If you ask me to go upstairs and put on shoes and proper pants, Michael, I swear to god I’ll...”

Michael shakes his head and straightens up again. “We insist that patrons are naked at all times. Health and safety reasons.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow. Michael explains coolly, “We don’t have a lifeguard on duty, sir, so we like to minimise the risk of drowning wherever possible.”

“And I take it that staff have to be in uniform at all times?” Ryan asks, gesturing to Michael’s outfit.

Michael nods, “Staff must adhere to company look policy at all times.”

Ryan folds his arms, pouting. “Sir, if you’ll take your clothes off, I can serve you,” Michael continues sweetly. “Perhaps you’d like to start your night with a Blow Job?”

The question gets Ryan’s attention and Michael smiles as he watches Ryan struggle out of his wet clothes. As Ryan undresses, Michael grabs what he needs and prepares a shot glass, presenting it to Ryan when he turns back towards the bar.

Ryan groans. “Not the kind of blow job I was after, dude.”

“Who said I was going to stop at one?” Michael grins.

“This is gonna be an expensive tab,” Ryan laughs.

“Oh yeah, you’d better believe it’s all getting charged to your room. And I expect a generous tip,” Michael adds.

“Just you focus on providing good service. I’ll make the decision about the tip,” Ryan winks. He puts his hands behind his back, takes the shot glass in his mouth and whips his head back, downing the liquid.

Michael leans over and takes the shot glass from him, moving closer to lick the remnants of whipped cream from Ryan’s lip. He sets the glass aside and climbs over the bar, dropping into the pool.

Ryan turns around and reaches out for him hungrily, but Michael gives him an admonishing look. “You’re in my spot.”

Ryan looks confused. “Did we drop the role play already? Because I thought I was the customer.”

“You are,” Michael nods, dipping his hand under the water and trailing his fingertips up Ryan’s thigh. “But on this occasion, I need you on the bar and me on the stool.”

Ryan puts his hands behind him on the bar, hoisting himself up out of the water. Michael takes his place, settling on the stool and placing both of his hands on Ryan’s legs, spreading the other man’s thighs and leaning over to suck the damp skin of Ryan’s leg.

As Michael works his way towards Ryan’s dick, Ryan glances out across the pool. “You did well for yourself, Michael,” he remarks. “As office views go, this one’s pretty good.”

“Some days it’s better than others,” Michael tells him, rubbing his hand over Ryan’s skin and slowly wrapping it around his dick. “And it’s definitely a shame that you’re not a regular here.”

Ryan groans as Michael moves his hand with more purpose, squeezing and stroking his dick. “I’ll say. Maybe this place is worth the money after all.”

“We pride ourselves on guest satisfaction,” Michael murmurs, slipping momentarily back into his role. “So let’s see if I can turn the ‘maybe’ into a ‘definitely’...”

He moves closer between Ryan’s thighs, holding the base of the other man’s dick and working his mouth slowly over the head. Michael’s vaguely aware of Ryan moaning again, and feels a hand on his shoulder gripping tightly.

Michael slowly works the base of Ryan’s dick with his hand as he pays attention to the head with his mouth. He goes steadily, licking and sucking at the tip, moving Ryan in and out of his mouth to maximise the teasing. Michael loses track of time, and it’s only when there’s a slosh of water and movement around him as Ryan hooks his legs over Michael’s shoulders and draws him in desperately that Michael moves his mouth further down Ryan’s shaft, glancing up at him through his eyelashes as he does so.

Ryan drops his head back with a moan, “Finally. Fuck, Michael.”

Michael’s concentration wavers at the sight of Ryan above him, desperate and shuddering, somewhere between tortured and completely blissed out. He rubs the top of Ryan’s thigh as he moves his mouth further down Ryan’s dick, sucking hard around the shaft and drawing a louder moan out of the other man.

Ryan grabs the back of Michael’s head, arching his back with shaking legs as he bites his lip and comes with a groan. “Shit, dude,” Ryan rasps, wobbling perilously on the bar.

Michael swallows and pushes out from beneath Ryan’s legs, grabbing his hips and pulling him into the pool and onto his lap.

Ryan leans back against the bar and scrubs a hand across his face with a hoarse laugh. “Damn, son. Let’s hope I can teach you to flair as good as you give head. There’s no way you’d lose.”

Michael smiles, letting his hand wander up Ryan’s side. “I get the feeling that preparing for this competition is not gonna be like the run up to any other contest I’ve entered in my life.”

Ryan comes back to earth, looking worried. “Shit. Athletes have crazy sex ban rules, don’t they? Please tell me that’s not your thing.”

“Oh I’m afraid it is,” Michael tells him solemnly, moving his hand up Ryan’s chest to his shoulder. “My coach was very strict, but his ideas worked. And I’m pretty superstitious so I think I’ll be sticking to what I know...”

Ryan shifts his hips on Michael’s legs, leaning in to kiss his neck. “But I’m your coach now,” he murmurs. “And I’ve always believed in getting things out of your system.” He drops his hands to Michael’s hips, playing with the strings which had distracted him earlier.

Michael quivers under Ryan’s touch and swallows. “On a more serious note... if we don’t put some kind of limit on this, there’s a very real possibility that we’ll spend a lot of time having sex and not enough time preparing.”

“When,” Ryan replies, kissing Michael’s jaw, “have you ever known me not prepare you right?”

“Well...” Michael tries, getting distracted as Ryan moves his hand to cup Michael’s dick.

“Exactly,” Ryan murmurs, giving Michael a squeeze. He pulls away, sitting up. “You’re right though, we don’t have much time. So perhaps we should get started.”

Michael moans in frustration and reaches down to readjust himself. “If you insist,” he says, lifting Ryan up and placing him back on the bar. Michael gets up and makes to haul himself back over the bar, but Ryan pushes him back into the pool.

“Allow me,” Ryan insists. “This’ll work better as a demo at first.”

“Actually,” Michael considers, tugging Ryan back into the pool. “This bar isn’t great for that. But there is another.”

Ryan glances around as if Michael’s gone insane. “Uh... where, exactly?”

Michael grins. “Follow me,” he commands, slipping off the stool and pushing into the water, quickly swimming away around the corner.

He hears Ryan drop fully into the water behind him as he heads under a bridge and through into an enclosed area. Michael leads the way into an enclosed swim up bar, similar to the outdoor one but with the addition of alcoves where guests can lounge. He stops to hit the lights, turning on the lanterns in the small space and settles at a bar stool, waiting for Ryan.

Ryan appears a moment later, swimming underwater until he reaches Michael’s seat, where he surfaces and plants a kiss on his lips.

“I think the coach/student relationship is a pretty unique one here,” Michael comments when Ryan pulls away.

“Did your swim coach ever get naked in the pool with you?” Ryan asks, eyebrow raised.

Michael shakes his head. “Good,” Ryan replies, leaving Michael’s side to duck behind the bar. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.” Ryan familiarises himself with the setup and pauses to think.

“So the competition is based on flair and mixology,” Ryan explains. “Clearly – as you’ve re-mastered my own signature drink successfully – you’ve gotten along pretty well with the latter. I’d say the former is definitely your weak spot right now.”

To illustrate his point, Ryan picks up a lime and casually tosses it in Michael’s direction. Michael fumbles the catch so spectacularly that the lime drops into the water around him with a splash. Michael blushes and ducks underwater to retrieve it. 

Ryan shakes his head. “Did your old coach operate a reward system?”

“Sort of? I got to leave early on Sundays to watch football if my times were good enough,” Michael remembers.

Ryan blinks. “Wow. Okay. And that was a good incentive?”

Michael shrugs. “Not as good as sexual favours from you.”

“Good answer,” Ryan grins. “Now, watch carefully, because you’ll be doing this one day.”

Michael dutifully watches as Ryan combines various ingredients in a shaker, flipping and juggling the bottles as he pours. Ryan tosses the shaker as he works before pouring the contents into a glass, garnishing the drink and picking up one final bottle.

He glances up as he’s tasting the drink and catches Michael grinning at him. “You know what it is?” he asks, spinning the bottle of cream liqueur in his hand as he waits.

Michael nods. “Yes. And I’ll take two please.”

Ryan laughs and splashes the liqueur into the middle of the drink, leaning over the bar to give Michael a kiss. “Sex with the Bartender is all yours, baby.”

“I didn’t think this drink was served with a kiss,” Michael murmurs against Ryan’s lips, pulling the drink towards himself for a taste.

“Good point,” Ryan muses, leaning back to let Michael try the drink. “What do you think?”

Michael sucks down half of the drink quickly, considering his answer. “I’ve had better,” he grins mischievously. “Want to try the local specialty?”

“Sure,” Ryan says. “Get round here and show me how it’s done. Then I’ll finish your order.”

Michael finishes his drink and joins Ryan behind the bar. As he grabs what he needs, Ryan does his best to distract Michael from his task, moving behind him and running his hands over Michael’s ass approvingly.

“Considering you say you’re never in the pool and always working, baby,” Ryan comments, nipping behind Michael’s ear as he places two glasses on the bar, “you’re in mighty fine shape.”

“Thank you,” Michael replies, pushing his ass into Ryan’s hands and groaning as Ryan squeezes it. “We’ll come back to that in a second.”

Ryan trails his hand up and down Michael’s back as he works, pouring two generous shots of the local tequila into the glasses, adds Red Bull to each and hands one to Ryan, who raises an eyebrow.

“That’s it?” he asks.

“Unimaginative, I know. But the kids love ‘em,” Michael replies. He holds his glass up. “This is my last round of Cabo Bombs. Here’s to New York.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ryan agrees, knocking his glass to Michael’s before they both down the shots with a grimace. “Nasty,” Ryan announces, shaking his head. “Never understood why anyone wants to ruin good alcohol with that sugary crap.”

“Because,” Michael begins, pulling Ryan closer and pressing his dick against Ryan’s thigh, “it’s full of caffeine. Which keeps you going.”

Ryan nods as Michael kisses him enthusiastically. “I take it this means you’re ready?” Ryan murmurs between kisses.

“Always,” Michael replies, removing his Speedo.

“Hallelujah,” Ryan groans, immediately wrapping his hand around Michael’s dick. He turns him around to face the bar and stands behind him, stroking Michael’s dick as he rubs his ass. 

“I was wondering actually,” Ryan continues, stepping back a little as Michael bends further over the bar. “With the amount of margaritas you must serve around here, whether you’ve been doing much of this lately.”

He drops to his knees, spreading Michael’s ass cheeks with one hand and running his tongue down the crack. Michael glances over his shoulder and laughs hoarsely as he watches Ryan.

“You’re right, babe. I’ve rimmed a lot of glasses recently,” he grins. “But it’s been a while since anyone’s done that to me.”

Ryan makes an upward swipe with his tongue. “Good,” he replies. “Because your ass is mine.”

Michael groans, letting his head drop. “It sure is.” He reaches down and wraps a hand around his dick, replacing Ryan’s. Ryan takes the opportunity to stroke Michael’s balls as he sucks Michael’s ass and begins to work his tongue in and out of the other man.

With Ryan’s tongue occupied, Michael provides a running commentary, which is essentially a litany of curses and moans, with the occasional bout of greater coherence to encourage Ryan. As Ryan follows Michael’s noises and ups the pace, Michael begins to beg in desperation.

“Fuck, c’mon Ry,” he grunts. “Need you. Want you. Want your dick.”

Ryan pulls away, panting slightly and quickly replaces his tongue with a couple of fingers, continuing to work Michael as he stands up. He kisses across Michael’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his chest. 

“Can’t ignore that request,” he murmurs in Michael’s ear. Ryan withdraws his fingers and works his dick into Michael, who groans appreciatively.

Michael and Ryan’s moans fill the small space, echoing around the close walls of the indoor bar and punctuated by the gentle slap of skin on skin and water against tile. Michael pushes his hips back quickly to meet Ryan’s, dropping his head as he rocks with the building motion and works his dick in order to get off.

Ryan speeds up suddenly and Michael is quick to encourage him. “Yes, Ry, harder... so good... c’mon.”

“Fuck, Michael,” Ryan groans as he comes, collapsing a little against the other man as Michael finishes himself off.

“All of those years,” Michael gasps shaking his head with a laugh, “I spent swimming back and forth. When I could’ve been fucking in the water.”

Ryan kisses the back of his neck softly and murmurs, “Better late than never.”

*

They sprawl out in one of the alcoves together, wrapped up in clean bathrobes which Michael finds in a cupboard behind the bar. As Ryan dozes against him, Michael watches the sky change colour slowly through the grill in the roof of the bar, making some decisions around what to do next.

When the dawn of the new day begins to creep through, Michael wakes Ryan gently with a squeeze and kisses his neck. “Time to go, Sleeping Beauty,” he murmurs.

Ryan groans and stirs against him. “Time izzit?” he mumbles sleepily.

“I don’t know,” Michael answers. “Early. Time to go and book some flights and pack our shit.”

“Are we leaving?” Ryan asks, moving in Michael’s arms to look up at him.

“Well... yeah,” Michael replies. “Haven’t I got a competition to train for?”

Ryan nods. “Yeah. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He sits up properly, stretches and drops into the water, swimming through to the outdoor pool and the early morning light.

*

It amazes Michael that he cares so little about leaving his boss and colleagues in the lurch, that he happily packs up and walks out in a matter of hours. Until, that is, he remembers why it is that he’s dropping everything and leaving – because Ryan wants and needs him and, suddenly, there is something in his life which is far more important than any job or other commitment he’s made, something worth running with rather than from. It’s a long time since Michael’s had something that he feels is truly worth pursuing, and it’s refreshing.

Michael’s schooling begins as soon as their flight to New York takes off and Ryan talks him through the format of the competition properly – what he’ll have to do and who the competition are likely to be. It feels like there’s a huge amount to take in and far more new skills to learn than Michael anticipated, but something about Ryan’s manner – and the fact that he’s taught Michael brand new things very quickly in the past – soothes Michael and gives him the self-belief necessary to forge ahead with the task at hand.

When they arrive back at Ryan’s apartment, Michael’s surprised to discover his belongings untouched. “I kinda expected it all to be in a box waiting for me to collect,” he admits sheepishly. “Or in the trash.”

“Hang on,” Ryan says, turning the coffee machine on and gesturing for Michael to sit down at the kitchen table. “I thought we did this already?”

“Did what?” Michael asks tiredly, taking a seat.

“The guilt, the apologies, the getting over it, the kissing and making up...” Ryan counts off on his fingers.

“I definitely remember the last bit,” Michael grins. “But I feel like I should do more of that, just to be thorough.”

Ryan holds a hand up sternly. “No, Rocky. We’ve got work to do. You’re gonna study and practice so that you can win this thing and _then_ we can carry on with the kissing and the screaming orgasms and whatever else you want.”

Michael pouts. “That face is not gonna work,” Ryan tells him. “If anything, it’s having the opposite effect on me, you look ridiculous.”

“But...” Michael protests.

“No buts. I’m over the fact that you ran away. You’re here now. We’ve both apologised, we’re moving on. Okay?”

Michael nods. “Okay.”

Ryan gets up, pours two giant mugs of coffee and starts placing bottles on the table. “Now. We’ll begin with juggling. For the flair section, you’ll all have the same equipment, and the bottles will be filled a certain amount to mean they’re at an optimum weight for all the tricks and minimise spills...”

Ryan talks, Michael listens. Sometimes, Ryan demonstrates and Michael copies. Every spare moment of the next two weeks is dominated by learning and practicing. They both return to work at the bar and, in the rare hours that Ryan allows him to sleep, Michael dreams of cocktail recipes and garnishes and glassware and weighted bottles.

Occasionally, the experience reminds him of swimming – the monotony of practicing something repeatedly until you get it right, until it’s second nature and there’s no longer any conscious thought behind it. The process of making a plan, figuring out a strategy that’ll work best to beat your fellow competitors off. 

The difference this time around is that Ryan never yells. Michael breaks bottles and glasses and sends various pieces of fruit flying across the floor. But Ryan doesn’t tell him off, he just chalks it all up to the learning process, soothes Michael’s ego with assurances that he too was like this once. Michael doesn’t believe that for a second, but the fact that Ryan tries helps a little.

They work together to develop three drinks Michael will make using flair, setting the routine to music and practicing over and over again until Michael thinks he could probably do it in his sleep. Michael finds himself having dreams about swimming interspersed with the dreams about cocktails, and more than once he wakes up sweating and breathing heavily from a nightmare about getting injured or not fulfilling his potential.

During the night before the competition, Michael stares at the ceiling for a couple of hours, Ryan sleeping heavily next to him as he thinks through everything he’s worried about and why. Michael’s swim coach had taught him that, if you’ve prepared as fully as possible for every eventuality, you would have nothing to worry about. But Michael’s worried.

He eventually gets up and pads into the kitchen, making himself a drink and sitting down to figure his thoughts out. He comes to the conclusion that the main concern he has is letting Ryan down – that he’s doing this so that Ryan can fulfil his dreams, completing a function that many other people had completed for Michael himself back when he was swimming.

It was one of the reasons Michael had run away when he’d discovered his injury couldn’t be fixed to the extent that he could swim professionally again: he’d become aware of everything that his family and his coach and his sponsors and everyone else he worked with had put into him – time, money, support – over many years in order to help him to achieve the high goals he set for himself. That these things had, for some people, a financial motivation, that they could make money out of him. But some of the people around him supported him because they loved him unconditionally – the kind of love he now has for Ryan – and he couldn’t stand the fact that, not only had he let himself down, but he’d also let down the people who loved him.

Michael resolves that he won’t let it happen again, that he’ll give what Ryan needs now and for the rest of their lives. And that he’ll start with winning the competition. 

Feeling a little more relaxed, Michael returns to the bedroom and slides into bed next to Ryan, wrapping himself around his lover’s warm body, and using the heat and steady movement of Ryan’s breathing to soothe himself to sleep.

*

Michael’s confidence evaporates when he and Ryan walk into the competition venue the following evening. They’re shown to his station by an official and Ryan begins to help him set up. Michael glances around at the unfamiliar sights and smells and feels his heart hammer uncomfortably in his chest.

Ryan’s words of advice ring in his ears, mixed with those of his former coach shouting instructions at him. The noises around him bubble and fade into that of a screaming crowd in a natatorium. Michael feels the floor swing beneath him and his stomach lurches as his mind is transported back to the night of his accident, the moment that his life changed and his dreams were taken away.

Ryan’s shouting at him. “Michael!” he reaches over and grips Michael’s arm. “Dude, are you alright? You don’t look so hot, you need to step out?”

Michael nods dumbly and wanders blindly outside and paces up and down for a minute trying to steady himself. He finds a bench and drops onto it, head in his hands, trying to shake the feeling of disappointment in a career that he feels never was.

He has no idea how long he’s alone for before a shadow crosses his face and Ryan quietly asks if he can sit down. Michael nods and Ryan drops down next to him and begins to talk.

“You don’t have to do this,” is the first thing he says. “We can leave. There can be another way. I shouldn’t have asked you to do this.”

Michael shakes his head, trying to find the words to describe how he feels. “I need to do this. For you. For us.”

Ryan sighs. “No, you need to stop freaking out about being a failure. Because you’re not, man. Is this gonna happen every four years? Or every time something’s hard? Because that’s fucked up. I get that you’re disappointed in yourself. But you shouldn’t be. And you need to come to terms with that somehow.”

The sentiments come rushing out of Ryan, and it reminds Michael of the day he ran away, the thoughts Ryan was trying to convey in that heated moment on the street. Michael knows he’s right, but he also knows it’s a separate issue, one that he needs to put aside for one more day, until he’s through the competition. Then he can think about dealing with them and moving on with his life.

Ryan chatters on, filling the silence with a stream of consciousness he’s been wanting to express for a long time. “I don’t know where you get his idea that you’re a huge failure, dude. The world doesn’t hate you. You didn’t kill anyone, you didn’t do drugs and get banned. You had an incredibly unfortunate accident. You didn’t deserve it, but it stopped everything. You were on the verge of being a national hero. But it wasn’t your own fault that you didn’t get there. I wish you’d watched the Olympics. Because they only said nice things about you.”

Michael glances up at him. “Yes, I watched it all. Somebody had to, I knew you weren’t. The commentators went on and on about how great it would’ve been if you’d been there, how cool it would’ve been to see someone dominate like you wanted to. But they weren’t criticising.”

Ryan takes a breath and softens his tone again. “But I get why you’re anxious about this, I think. So you need to know that if you can’t do it, I won’t care. I don’t need you to be a winner, I need you to be with me.”

“No,” he shakes his head, trying to stand. “I can do this.” Ryan plants a hand on his thigh, holding him down.

“I know you can,” Ryan says firmly, trying to catch his gaze. “I know you can do really well here. But I’ve realised almost too late that I’ve been a dick to ask you to do this. And I’m sorry and you really don’t have to.”

Michael finally turns to look at him, determined now. “I’m doing it,” he insists. “For us. For you. And for me.”

Ryan holds Michael’s gaze and takes a deep breath. “Alright,” he nods. “Let’s go.”

*

Michael impresses the crowd and the judges. His mixology section goes brilliantly – once he’d mastered his first drink back in the early days after he’d quit college, it turned out to be something he’s a natural at, so he breezes through and even enjoys it. The flair section is harder, but nothing goes spectacularly wrong, he just feels it’s obvious that he’s still a novice.

There’s still a parallel for Michael between this day and his previous life. Every time he’d gotten in a pool, it had been with the determination to become the greatest swimmer who ever lived, to change his sport and inspire others. He no longer has such lofty ambitions, there are just two futures he wants to secure: Ryan’s and his own. He focuses on this throughout the competition, imagining what their lives will be like and it helps him through.

As they wait for the judges to deliberate, Michael relaxes, head now cleared of thoughts of the competition and starts getting excited about the next phase of his life.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for Ryan’s hand, “how about we take some time out after this? Can we do that, or did you want to get straight on with your new stuff?”

“It can wait,” Ryan replies, squeezing his hand. “I have a few things ready to go, and it’ll take a while to sort a few things out, so that’s okay if you want to go away. You have somewhere in mind?”

“I’d like you to meet my family,” Michael tells him. “I know that’s not exactly a vacation, but...”

“I’d love to,” Ryan beams. “I think that’s a great idea. We can go and meet mine too, if you’re ready.”

Michael nods quickly. “Definitely.” He pauses, thinking some more. “And then we need to decide where to live.”

Before Ryan can reply, the judges return to the stage and the announcement begins. Ryan squeezes Michael’s hand again, and they both sit up to pay attention. Michael holds his breath as the announcers than the event’s sponsors and all of the competitors and attendees for making the competition what they are regarding as a success.

“In third place,” the announcer finally calls, “with a fantastic effort who impressed the judges with his flair skills, Brian Donnelly!”

Applause breaks out for the guy in third place – the one who had enjoyed playing with fire when Ryan had taken Michael on their first date – as he makes his way to the stage to accept his prize.

“He didn’t deserve that,” Ryan mutters. Michael digs him in the ribs and turns his attention back to the announcer.

“And today’s runner up – a well-deserved second place for someone who, despite being very much a newcomer, but the judgers are certain would be a great success on the competition circuit,” the announcer pauses for effect, “Michael Phelps!”

Michael barely registers his name until Ryan flings his arms around him and congratulates him. When it starts to sink in, Michael remembers that he needs to move, go and accept his prize. He peels himself away from Ryan and wanders over to the stage, shaking hands with the presenters, posing for pictures and accepting his rewards – a small trophy, a certificate and a cheque.

Once the winner has been announced and the cameras have stopped flashing, Michael returns to Ryan’s side, handing over the cheque.

“I’m proud of you,” Ryan tells him without any prompting.

“I know,” Michael replies, pulling him into another hug. “We’re on our way now.”

“We’re going on vacation,” Ryan grins. “I hope you’re ready for the Lochte Experience.”

Michael laughs. “I’m not sure that I am, but I know you’ll help me through it.”

“Damn straight.”

“I think,” Michael tells Ryan, kissing him quickly, “that we should go home, crack open a beer each and book our trip. What do you say?”

“I say yes. No more cocktails for us,” Ryan agrees with a smile.

*

Michael walks down the street from his office on a warm September afternoon eight years later and finds his thoughts turning to the changes which have taken place in his life. These days, he’s twice a former-Olympian with three further Games behind him and a far healthier attitude to the cycle than the first time around, when he’d tried to run away from it all.

He now looks back on the darker periods of his life contentedly – every small element had been a stepping stone, he knows, to the place he’s at now. He lets himself into the home he shares with Ryan and whistles for their dogs, who come running, tongues lolling, ready to go out.

When they’d returned from their vacation to Florida via Baltimore straight after the cocktail competition, the first thing Michael had done was put his apartment up for sale. The second thing he’d done was use part of his winnings to buy both himself and Ryan a dog each. Ryan had initially vetoed the idea, saying that they should save their money and make sure that they set the business up before taking on any additional financial responsibilities. Michael had reminded him that they were chasing their dreams. Ryan had caved in properly when Michael pulled up a website showing a breeder not too far away who had just the type of dogs that he knew Ryan had always wanted.

And so a bulldog named Herman and a Doberman called Carter had scrambled into their lives and relished bringing chaos to their house ever since. Four years later, following an accidental walk past a dog shelter, a third dog had been welcomed to their home, meaning that Michael often has responsibility for three leashes and fourteen legs. Fortunately, Stella – as the third dog is known – has a calming effect on both of the other dogs, and actually makes their lives easier.

Michael returns to the street and hurries the dogs along, aware that he’s running slightly late. Their next stop is only a block away, and Michael makes the dogs sit as still as possible as they wait inside the gate for their companion. 

While he waits, Michael shakes off the final thoughts from his busy day. The aftermath of the Olympics has been particularly hectic at work, which wasn’t a surprise, but has given him a lot to think about. When Ryan had begun setting up his studio and gallery – supported by Michael, who had done most of the legwork in securing a bank loan – Michael had started seeing a counsellor, in order to properly deal with the issues surrounding his abrupt retirement from swimming.

Part of the problem was that most people saw coaching as a natural career progression for Michael, but he had never seen that for himself. Plus, he wanted a role which allowed him to stay in one place consistently, for the sake of his relationship with Ryan and their canine brood. The more therapy he’d undergone, the more it had all made sense and Michael made a decision.

He helped Ryan to set up the studio, supporting the business functions part-time whilst he studied. This time, he was passionate about his work, finding classes engaging and straightforward. Michael quickly qualified as a counsellor himself and, with his unique perspective of “been there, done that” had soon built a successful business assisting athletes with their post-retirement transitions to new careers.

As he’s letting go of his earlier session with a client, a weight thumps against his leg, squeaking excitedly and grinning up at him. Michael bends to scoop up his son with a smile, giving the boy a hug.

“You ready to go and see Dad?” he asks. The little boy nods and Michael sets him back down, handing him Herman’s leash and taking his backpack from him.

“So what did you do today, Noah?” Michael continues as they walk down the street together.

He laughs as his son describes his latest art project – Noah has Michael’s genes but Ryan had been quick to project his own passion onto their son – in great detail as their walk progresses. When they reach their destination, Michael pushes the door open, guiding Noah and the dogs inside carefully.

Ryan hears them enter and appears from his office to greet them with a smile, picking Noah up and swinging him around when he rushes over, jettisoning Herman on the way. Michael hangs back with the other dogs, taking the time to look around the latest exhibition in Ryan’s studio with pride – it’s a collaboration with one of Michael’s former clients, who has found a previously-hidden talent following their retirement from athletics, and the online previews of the exhibition have already received a great deal of interest.

Michael’s joined at a painting by Ryan, who wraps an arm around his waist and gives him a kiss.

“What do you think?” Ryan asks.

Michael turns, placing both arms around Ryan’s waist and pulling him closer. “I think,” Michael replies with a smile, “that I’m the luckiest man in the world. And that this painting will look great in the nursery.”

Ryan smiles back at him, glancing at the painting Michael was admiring approvingly. “I think you have good taste,” he replies. 

Michael laughs. “You make sure you tell our daughter that when she’s born, yeah?”

Ryan kisses him again. “Of course. But, I mean, it’s obvious: you chose me as a husband after all.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Go and get a ‘sold’ sticker for that painting before your ego can’t get through the door.”

A few minutes later they leave the studio, each with a leash in hand. Noah runs ahead with Carter, Michael and Ryan close behind, hand in hand.

“So you think you’ll have a busy few months?” Ryan asks.

Michael nods. “There’ll be some late decisions, so I could be busy right through to spring. And we’ve got Ava on the way... never a dull moment, hey?” He smiles at Ryan.

“I don’t mind,” Ryan shrugs. “Can’t have either of us getting bored.”

Michael laughs. “No chance!”

“It’d be nice to schedule a vacation, though. Late spring maybe, what do you think?”

“Sounds good. Got anywhere in mind?”

Ryan grins. “Nah, just one requirement.”

“Name it.”

“A swim up bar.”

Michael leans over and kisses him with a laugh. “Done.”


End file.
